


the sound of his wings

by orchid_spiral



Series: the machine turns [3]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Conspiracies, Copious drinking, F/M, Jealousy, Love Triangles, M/M, hacker!Solomon, mentions of Graves/Bliss, references to breathplay, sort of fantasy, spies and subterfuge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:38:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchid_spiral/pseuds/orchid_spiral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The higher they fly, the harder they fall. Solomon's doing his best to avoid that, but it's not easy, especially when it's impossible to know who to trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a study in solomon

**Author's Note:**

> Took me long enough, but here it is. This one is... shall we say, less relationship-focused than the others? It's also something of a sign of how much of a devious bastard I am, given that I sincerely doubt that anything like the scenario I wrote here can/would/is happening, but hey, my brain decided it was plausible, so I wrote the damn fic of it. Hope you all enjoy it. It's set in mid-2014, back before Crowe had officially debuted. The title is a reference to issue 8 of the very excellent comic The Sandman, 'The Sound of Her Wings', and the chapter title is a reference to the first Sherlock Holmes story, 'A Study In Scarlet'. I've probably forgotten some tags/warnings, so please comment if I have. Thank you all very much for reading. :)

He is five days old.  
  
He was born premature; only 33 weeks had passed. He is a tiny scrap of a baby, a thin, frail little thing with pitch-black hair, sleeping soundly in his incubator.  
  
When he was born, the prognosis did not look good. He seemed weak, fragile, likely to die soon.  
  
But he is a fighter. His tiny hands may look as though they could not even hold a feather, but he grasps life tightly and he will never let it go.  
  
His parents watch over him, smiling at their tiny son. He has a loud voice, and when distressed, he screeches like a bird, but that is rare.  
  
“I’ve been thinking,” his father murmurs.  
  
His mother looks at him. “Hmmm?”

“About names,” he replies.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
They have not yet decided. They decided that they would wait until their offspring was born to find out its sex, and in the meantime, they made lists of names and debated them for hours.  
  
The premature birth of their son caused much upheaval, and now, five days after his birth, he remains nameless.  
  
“I know this sounds weird, but…”  
  
“But?”  
  
“He looks… smart,” his father says. “Like he’s going to be a real genius.” He looks at her. “Does that sound weird?”  
  
She stares intently down at her son’s face, scrutinizing him closely, and then nods. “No, I agree. So what’s your idea?”  
  
“Well… why don’t we call him Solomon?”  
  
She looks at him thoughtfully, and then turns back to her son, considering this.  
  
“Solomon,” she muses. “Very Biblical. Not one I hear a lot… hmmm. I like it.”  
  
“Solomon Crowe,” he says, trying it out.  
  
“That’s a good name,” she replies.  
  
His smile lights up his face. “Glad you think so.”  
  
They look down at the newly-named Solomon Crowe, and everything is perfect.

 

  
He is six months old.  
  
His room is very light and airy, from the white-painted walls to the skylight over his crib. Sunlight shines in, and he loves the warmth, relishes it like a cat.  
  
He’s come far from the tiny baby he was. Now, he is plump and happy, and his hair has grown out, an untidy shock of thick black hair.

He lies on his back, staring up at the vivid blue sky over his head, listening to the noise of water running through the pipes in the walls.

The wall behind his crib has a huge window in it, and there’s a flutter of wings as a crow lands on the sill, staring in at the room.  
  
The window’s closed, so she can’t get in, but that’s no problem. She isn’t there to attack him, anyway.  
  
She cocks her head curiously, staring down at him. He is unlike anything she has ever seen before, but she knows a crow chick when she sees one.  
  
Fascinated, she lets out a loud caw, and watches as he waves his tiny hands in response.

Satisfied, she watches over him, keeping him from harm until his parents return to their nest.

 

 

  
He is two years old.  
  
He can run now, his plump little legs barely managing to hold him up as he makes his way around the house, nearly falling half a dozen times but always managing to stay upright.  
  
The house is secure enough. No harm will come to him there. But the outdoors are a different matter, and he discovers this after he finds that the back door was accidentally left open.  
  
In seconds, he has escaped, running and stumbling and nearly tripping when his unsteady legs land badly.  
  
He is slowly making his way up the paved driveway when there’s a flurry of movement and a crow lands in front of him. It caws loudly, and he falls backwards, surprised, landing heavily. He lets out a shriek of surprise and pain, and seconds later, his mother calls out his name, realising too late that he is not where he should be.  
  
The crow cocks her head, hops forward until she is directly in front of him, and runs her beak over his hair. It is a gentle movement, like a mother stroking her son’s head.  
  
His mother runs outside, calling his name, and the crow starts and flies off.  
  
Solomon stares up after her, hypnotised, and he’s still staring when his mother scoops him up and carries him back inside, almost sobbing with relief that no harm has come to him.

 

 

He is eight years old.

He excels in school, learns quickly and thoroughly, easily outstrips the others.

He is a shy child. He is overweight and bookish and no matter what he or his parents or anyone tries, his hair is always unruly.

He is not popular.

The other children tease and taunt him. They mock his love of knowledge, his hair, his name.

He hates them.

He is but one boy, however, and they vastly outnumber him. So he does nothing in response to their taunts. Instead, he learns to hide, to evade them, to know where they are and always, always be somewhere else.  
  
It is spring, one warmish day when school is in session. Solomon sits at the base of the huge tree that sits in one corner of the yard.

The others irk him. Most are simply hangers-on, the sheep who will join in with the course of action the leaders decide, lest they be cast out themselves. But the leaders…

His fingers itch, but he does not move.

He can hear the laughter, the conversation, and he resents them for it.

But he does not respond. He never responds. His parents have taught him that.

One day, he vows. One day, he will pay them back for everything they have done. He doesn’t know how, but he’ll do it.

One day. But not now.

Instead, he rises to his feet and looks around.

Nobody is near him. The teachers are occupied with breaking up a fight across the yard.

He waits a few seconds, and once he is satisfied, he looks up at the tree.

He has wanted to do this ever since he first saw it, but he has never had the chance. The rules ban climbing trees, and he takes care not to break them.

Where anyone can see him, that is.

It’s not hard to climb the old tree. It sits close to the wall that blocks off the schoolyard from the street, and it’s an old wall, with several bricks missing. For all that the other children taunt him for his weight, he has no problem with running, or being agile… or climbing.

So using the holes as hand- and footholds, he climbs up the wall, reaches over, grabs a branch, and soon he is lost to sight.

It is a whole new world for him. There are so many branches that the leaves have formed a dome, one that constantly shifts and moves with a sound like hundreds of people whispering, sunlight streaming through the cracks, making parts of the dome spontaneously light up, vividly green.

The noise from the yard and the students has decreased, and even the sound of the cars driving past is hard to hear.  
  
It is his own space. Nobody else is here to invade and intrude. Nobody knows he is here; if he plays his cards right, nobody will ever know.  
  
He looks up at the golden sunlight illuminating the green leaves, and feels so happy that he laughs.  
  
As if in answer, a crow caws from somewhere above him.  
  
The sound echoes through the dome, settles into his brain, and almost without knowing why, he begins to climb again.  
  
The tree is huge, but he is good at climbing, and it’s not long until he shifts the leaves aside and emerges from the dome, far above the yard.  
  
And he is mesmerised.  
  
Because he can see the whole world from his branch, and it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.  
  
An ocean of pure blueness surrounds him. Far away, he can see the skyscrapers and towers of the inner city. The sun shines down so brightly that for a second he is dazzled, and he almost lets go of his branch, but the crow’s call startles him back to life.  
  
It sounds close, very close, and he looks around carefully, now very conscious of how precarious his perch is.  
  
It caws and he looks up, his eyes widening in shock as it flies down to land on a branch very close to him.  
  
This crow is very small, barely an adult, and he looks at Solomon as if they are friends who haven’t met for quite some time.  
  
He lets out another caw and takes off, flying in a circle around the tree.  
  
Solomon watches it, his eyes alert, and a single thought settles in his mind: _I want to do that, too._  
  
But he can’t.  
  
Can he?  
  
He isn’t a crow. He doesn’t have wings. Humans can’t fly, not without airplanes and hang gliders and stuff like that. And he likes the idea of hang gliding, but that’s not really flying. He doesn’t want to be a pilot, though. He wants to feel the sky around him, feel the wind on his face, feel the sun on his back and the air below him.  
  
The crow lands next to him and pecks his cheek roughly, hard enough that Solomon cries out. The crow looks at him reproachfully, like he’s been kept waiting for too long, and Solomon looks back helplessly.  
  
“What? What do you want me to do?” he asks him.  
  
His new friend caws, and Solomon sighs. “I can’t fly! I don’t have wings!”  
  
The crow caws one last time and takes off, flying in a circle around him before turning right and rapidly disappearing.  
  
He gets the message: _if you want to fly, you need to find some wings._  
  
Solomon rubs his cheek, stares after the crow and makes a decision: he _will_ find his wings. No matter what it takes.  
  
He wants to fly.

 

  
  
He is thirteen years old.  
  
Middle school has become no less of a trial for him: he is still overweight, he still excels beyond most of the other students, and his hair has somehow become even more unruly.  
  
He has found no real friends here. His shyness- or, more accurately, his disdain- does not attract people. The resident bullies still target him. And even the other so-called geeks and nerds aren’t particularly welcoming: he’s not a geek, never has been, and doesn’t particularly feel like becoming one. And while there are others who really excel at school and are picked on in return, most are overachievers, perfectionists who are driven to be the best they possibly can, whether it’s by themselves or by their parents. They aren’t good company, not for Solomon.  
  
No, instead, it is the library and the books he finds there.  
  
Or at least, it is up until the day they start a basic course on computers.  
  
Solomon has never been very interested in computers. His parents own one, but he is mostly busy reading, and rarely ever plays games.  
  
So when he sits down in the lab in front of the computer, he is expecting nothing more than to be utterly bored by this course.  
  
Until he switches the machine on.  
  
And as basic and rudimentary as the computer is, something about it enthrals him.  
  
He pays closer attention to this class than he has to any other class in his life. When the teacher’s back is turned, he experiments, exploring the machine’s limits, trying everything he can think of. He goes over the manual intensely, focusing hard on every sentence.  
  
And one day, he looks out of the window nearby and sees a crow sitting on a branch.  
  
She sees him in turn, caws, and flies off.  
  
And something in that movement tells him that he has finally found his wings, right there on the screen.  
  
It makes perfect sense, he realises slowly. He is human, so of course he would have artificial wings.

Now all he has to do is learn how to fly.

 

  
He is eighteen years old.  
  
In the five years since, he has taken every computer course he could. He has his own computer now, and he spends hours on it, exploring its mysteries and the world around him.  
  
The other students have never been kind to him, but he takes revenge, in his own way. Not the way he would prefer- that way involves copious amounts of blood, hence why he cannot go about it- but a way that satisfies him all the same.  
  
He has learned about the Internet. He has learned how to hack, how to discover the secrets of others, and most importantly, how not to get caught.  
  
He has found others, fellow hackers who share their knowledge and give advice, tiny groups hiding away where no agent of the law can ever find them.  
  
And he has learned about his fellow students.  
  
He knows that the star quarterback’s mother is sleeping with seemingly everyone but her husband. He knows that the captain of the cheerleading team’s father has been embezzling, and has amassed quite a nice sum. He knows that the boy who sucks up to the maths teacher has cheated on every test he can and bragged about it in his diary, the one he types up every night and saves on his computer.   
  
He knows everything.  
  
He has told no one. It makes him smile, thinking of the power he holds, the havoc he could wreak if they ever gave him a reason to.  
  
But he doesn’t, and he won’t, and he never will.  
  
Because in the end, that’s all he wants. In the end, he knows how irrelevant they are, how they think so much of themselves when in reality, they are just pathetic excuses for human beings that nobody will ever care about. None of them will matter to him at all in one year, ten years, twenty years. And he’ll forget about them, because in the end, they’re just irrelevant wastes of sperm and eggs who don’t deserve his time.  
  
He knows that he is not, nor has he ever been a particularly kind person, but in the end, he doesn’t really give a fuck.

 

  
He is twenty-two years old.  
  
He has graduated from his computer science course at college, the top of the class. He has gone even further than that, graduating with his Masters.  
  
And yet, he is not satisfied.  
  
The options open to him are not what he wants. He doesn’t want to work in IT. He doesn’t want to develop computer software. He wants to hack. He wants to explore the world others have made, and tear it apart, rebuild it in his own way, sift through the shards to take what’s important for his own.  
  
But he can’t do it legally. Sure, he could probably go into some kind of law enforcement- with his knowledge, he could be quite a good asset. But he doesn’t want to do that. He’s learned so much from hackers. He refuses to betray them.  
  
And while he could always steal enough money to live on, he can’t think of a plausible lie to cover it up, one that would hold up to both the enquiries of various three-letter agencies, and to the enquiries of his parents.  
  
He can’t- and won’t- do that to his parents. He knows how shocked and upset they’d be if they found out what he was doing. He can’t get busted.  
  
And more importantly, he can’t lie to them. Not like that, anyway. He won’t let them find out that their son is a criminal. It would break their hearts, and ruin everything.

So in the end, he’s found his wings, but not his perch.

Archimedes once said that with the right place to stand and a long enough lever, he could move the world.

Solomon has his lever, but no idea of where to stand, and not knowing where is eating him inside.  
  
So he sits in a diner at four pm, eating a rather good salad, listening to the rain pour down and staring glumly at the TV.  
  
It’s showing a news update about a pile-up on the highway twenty minutes away. The update’s not telling him anything he didn’t already know, so he’s only vaguely paying attention, and it takes him a second to realise when the update finishes and it’s back to the show it was on before, a wrestling show.  
  
As the show goes on, Solomon slowly stops paying attention to the rain, the conversations around him, and even to his salad. Instead, he’s focused on the screen, on the fight taking place.  
  
It enthrals him.  
  
It’s the way they move, so graceful, so beautiful, even for a sport focused on fighting and hurting others. It’s the moves they pull off, the way they strike and twist and jump and spring back to their feet, always ready for more.  
  
He keeps watching until the show ends, and as the credits roll, he slumps back against the seat, blinking quickly, barely aware that he’s still holding his fork.  
  
And a single thought runs through his mind: _you could do that._  
  
He wants to. He really, really wants to.  
  
And he probably could.

He’s found his place to stand.  
  
Outside, a crow caws.

 

  
He is twenty-six years old.  
  
He’s sitting in the office of Hunter Hearst Helmsley, and yeah, OK, he’s pretty nervous. Which is stupid, because he shouldn’t be nervous. There’s nothing to be nervous about.

He’s just got this feeling that something’s _wrong_ , and he can’t imagine what it would be.  
  
He’s wrestled for four years now, and he’s caught the eye of someone in NXT: someone who likes how he fights, someone who wants to see more.  
  
And he’s done his best to get noticed. Oh, he has. He’s wrestled for more than a few promotions over the years, and there weren’t many people who didn’t want to get signed to WWE in some form or another.  
  
Though if he does get signed, he knows it’s going to take a while for him to adapt, because he’s spent years getting seriously injured in every way possible in a ring, and he’s going to have to get used to not being covered in blood at the end of all his matches.

Admittedly, he knows he’ll miss that part. WWE just isn’t big on blood any more, and God knows he got a lot of pleasure out of making whatever dumb motherfucker who tried to fight him bleed as much as Solomon could make him. Even years later, thinking of all the screams and the pain he inflicted makes him smile.  
  
Helmsley- or Hunter, or Triple H, or Trips, whatever- is seated behind his desk, pouring them both a drink: coffee for himself and water for Solomon. His office is surprisingly small, smaller than Solomon expected for the man who married into a family of billionaires, the man who runs NXT and runs it well. It’s not even that fancy, either.  
  
He’s not sure what game Helmsley’s playing. Is he trying to appear more casual, more down to earth? Is he trying to make people feel at ease? Is he trying to seem less like the millionaire who’s part of an incredibly powerful family and more like a mostly-retired wrestler who now runs his own company?  
  
Or does he just not like fancy, elaborate offices?  
  
Either way, Solomon doesn’t think that he’s going to get an answer.  
  
Helmsley turns back around, sets down the cups, and Solomon mutters a thank you and takes a quick drink, easing his dry mouth.  
  
“Thank you for coming,” Helmsley says, and Solomon almost laughs, because who the fuck wouldn’t turn up when _Hunter Helmsley_ asks them to?  
  
…OK, yeah, that’s a pretty stupid question.  
  
Doing his best to play the interested potential future employee, Solomon nods and listens as Helmsley continues, despite his growing feelings of unease. “I’ve seen your work in the indies, and I like it. I’ve got something of a proposal, if you’d like to hear more.”  
  
Solomon nods again, and Helmsley smiles slightly.

And for some reason, that smile makes Solomon want to run like hell.  
  
Helmsley lays his hands on the desk and starts. “A buddy of mine works for the CIA. Computer crimes. They take in a lot of people with degrees in computer science, especially people like you, who have Masters or PhDs and the like. He said they offered you a job, and you said no.”  
  
Solomon’s on the verge of freaking out now, because he has no idea why the hell Helmsley would give a flying fuck. But he has about five seconds to think of a response, and lacking any other options, he just nods. “That’s right.”  
  
“Why?” Helmsley asks, looking genuinely intrigued.  
  
“Uh,” Solomon says, trying to gather his thoughts. Once he has, he shrugs. “It just didn’t seem like my kind of job, sir.”  
  
“Oh, please call me Hunter,” Hunter says amiably, and Solomon’s urge to turn around and run like hell is getting even stronger. “It just seems like an unusual path to take, that’s all- a Masters in Computer Science, and then to wrestling?”  
  
“I love wrestling,” Solomon replies, unsure of what the right answer is- or if there even is a right answer. “I love computers, too, but I don’t want to work in computer science.”  
  
Hunter raises his eyebrows. “So why did you do a degree in computer science, then?”  
  
“Because I wanted to learn everything I could about computers,” Solomon answers, even more confused. “Look, why is this relevant?”  
  
Hunter holds up a hand. “I’ll get to that in a second. So you just didn’t think working for the CIA was the right job for you?”  
  
Solomon feels like a mouse, frozen to the spot, only able to watch helplessly as some enormous bird of prey swoops down to eat him.  
  
Hunter smiles like a shark, maybe sensing Solomon’s confusion and trepidation. “And it wasn’t because of your very successful career as a hacker?”  
  
Solomon freezes, his eyes wide and his face pale. His pulse thunders in his ears, and all he can think is _I am so fucked._

And Hunter’s smile widens.

“Before you ask, no, I’m not turning you in,” Hunter says in a way that’s probably meant to be reassuring but isn’t. “And if you’re wondering how I knew… well. I was curious when I heard that you went from a Masters in Computer Science to indie wrestler known for hardcore matches. I was even more curious when my friend at the CIA told him you turned them down. So I asked a few friends of mine to find out more, and apparently your teachers in both high school and college noticed that you knew a few tricks that most users wouldn’t know, even the really knowledgeable ones. And that… intrigued me.”  
  
He spreads his hands. “And so here you are, an accomplished hacker and wrestler. And here I am, a man in need of both, as it happens.”  
  
It takes Solomon a few seconds to recover enough to speak, and his voice sounds odd in his ears when he does. “You… you are?”  
  
Hunter nods. “I am. I really did see your work in the indies, and I did like what I saw. But that being said, it’s your abilities as a hacker that I need more.”  
  
Well, he’s fucked either way. May as well play along.

“What do you need?” Solomon asks, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles turn white.  
  
“It’s not anything big,” Hunter says reassuringly. “And it’s not illegal. Technically.”

That’s… not really a comforting thought.

“As you know,” Hunter says, getting back on track, “WWE employs a large number of people, both in and out of the ring.”  
  
Solomon is even more confused now. “And?”  
  
“And a lot of them are… enigmatic, shall we say,” Hunter says. “They don’t cause trouble… well, that much trouble… and they put on good matches, so technically I shouldn’t have a problem with them. And as long as they give me the basic information I need- bank accounts, medical records and so on, you know- I should have enough to go on.”  
  
Solomon’s starting to get the idea. “But…”  
  
“But that isn’t enough,” Hunter says flatly. “I have dozens of highly-trained athletes living in the same building, and half of them are complete unknowns. For all I know, everything they tell me is a lie. They operate by their own rules and they won't tell me what those rules are. There’s too much potential for everything to go wrong. I need more.”

Solomon lets out a breath and nods slowly, giving himself time to think. It’s not as though this kind of work is _hard_ , after all. He could do it in his sleep.

Hang on.

“You have friends in the CIA,” Solomon says, trying not to sound too accusatory. “Fuck, you’ve probably got friends in every organisation I can think of. Why do you need me?”

There’s an odd expression on Hunter’s face, and Solomon belatedly recognises it: it’s the expression people get when they’re trying too hard to keep a straight face. In this case, Hunter looks almost… irritated. Shit.

“I can’t keep demanding favours from everyone,” he says. “And they all have their own jobs to do, important jobs that take up a lot of time. I need someone working for me and for me alone.”

Well, that at least makes sense.

“So _if_ I accept this offer, am I actually going to wrestle?” Solomon asks. “Or do I just sit backstage with a laptop?”  
  
“Oh, you’ll wrestle,” Hunter says reassuringly, though Solomon isn’t buying it. “But not on the main show. Dark matches and house shows, that kind of thing. We’ll say you need lots of time to adapt to our style.”  
  
Solomon considers this thoughtfully. “But I get on the main show eventually.”

“Of course,” Hunter says smoothly.

Solomon gives him a cynical stare, but he lets it slide. “And in my spare time, I find out everything I can on- what, everyone on the NXT roster? What about the main roster?”  
  
“Not the main roster,” Hunter says. “They’re not my responsibility.”

Is it Solomon’s imagination, or does Hunter sound almost… smug?

“As for the NXT roster… not everyone. Just the ones who I think I need to know more about. I’ll pay you extra, of course. And I’ll pay for any equipment you need.”

It’s a damn good deal. Almost too good, in fact.

Solomon narrows his eyes. “One condition.”  
  
“Name it,” Hunter says.  
  
“If I accept this,” Solomon says, his mouth dry, “then you’re going to cover for me if I get busted. This is fucking illegal, no matter how you dress it up. If you fuck me over…”  
  
Hunter chuckles, and Solomon resists the urge to flip the fucking table, because it’s that annoying little chuckle Hunter does whenever the person he’s talking to has said something stupid, but he wants to look amused and affable. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that. I take care of my employees. And I’ll ask my friends to overlook your… activities. They’ll be amenable, given the favours they owe me.”  
  
He leans forward, his gaze intense. “So what do you say?”

Solomon carefully thinks about this. “What happens if I say no?”

“Nothing,” Hunter says. “Why, what were you expecting?”

Oh, like he doesn’t know.

Solomon shrugs it off, thinks for a few more seconds and makes his decision.

“I say yes,” he says. “But only if I get a contract.”

One part of him is jumping up and down with excitement. The rest of him is asking ‘ _What the fuck did you just do, you fucking moron?’_

On the one hand, this is everything he’s wanted for years. On the other hand, it could quite possibly be the beginning of the end for him. But fuck it, he’s going to give it a shot anyway.  
  
Solomon isn’t surprised at all when Hunter smiles and opens his desk drawer. He pulls out a thick envelope and hands it over without saying a word.

Carefully, Solomon takes the contract out and starts reading it.  
  
He’s no expert, but it’s not very complex. He’s seen NXT contracts before, and this one is pretty much identical to them, except for a few bits, like the clause saying that he’s also required to do a number of services relating to computers, the details to be agreed by him and Hunter.  
  
Oh, and then there’s the amount he’s getting paid.  
  
He thinks for a second that he’s read it wrong, but no, that’s his actual wage, and it’s astounding.

Yeah, he’ll definitely have to keep quiet about this, or people will figure out that there’s some weird shit going on.

He looks up at Hunter, who smirks at his look of disbelief and asks again, “So what do you say?”  
  
Solomon nods slowly, accepts the pen Hunter offers him, and signs.

  
  
Three days later, he’s standing in his new apartment in the building all of the NXT and WWE superstars live in. He’s on the top floor, and he has his own balcony.  
  
The view is amazing, and as he stares out over the city, he knows one thing for sure: he’s got his wings, he’s got his nest, and he’s got his place to stand.  
  
Now he can really get started.  
  
From somewhere nearby, a crow caws.


	2. what is heaven without the sabbath?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only things could be that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, I am so sorry that this chapter took so long. I'll try to get chapter three edited soon, but it might take a while. :( If you're curious, I posted a POV of the interview from the first chapter here: http://indra-cal.tumblr.com/post/117157333490/pov-the-sound-of-his-wings  
> The chapter title is from 'As It Is In Heaven' by Angelspit. Hope you all enjoy it, and thank you so much for reading!

In the four months since Solomon signed the contract, he’s learned that the offer of a lifetime was in reality a double-edged sword.

On the plus side, he’s in WWE at last, and he’s almost used to not losing large quantities of blood whenever he wrestles.  
  
On the minus side, he strongly suspects that he’s bitten off more than he can chew this time.

He’s doing his best to train and adjust, and he’s working just as hard as everyone else, if not harder. Of course, that hasn’t actually moved him off the lowest rung of the NXT superstars.

Solomon supposes that it’s Hunter’s depressing ‘sense of humour’ that created his hacker gimmick. He also admits that taking him out of the picture since he debuted the gimmick was probably the best move- after all, it’s not like they’re trying to advertise the real reason he was hired. But he’s never been quite so nervous around everyone before.  
  
Even back in high school, when he made it a point to find out all of his classmates’ and their families’ dirty little secrets (well, the ones who annoyed him, at least), he never believed that any of them would have a snowflake’s chance in Hell of finding out what he was doing. However, the same isn’t true of the NXT crew. They’re smart, they’re wary, many of them have the kinds of contacts that could easily dig that shit up, and unlike his old classmates, they’re very capable of putting two and two together and coming up with four.  
  
The good-natured ones treat him like anyone else. The indifferent ones don’t care. But there are some who seem to view him as Hunter’s whipping boy, given that word quickly spread that Hunter was down on the hacker gimmick. And because of that, he gets a fair bit of mocking from some of the more… impolite superstars.  
  
Solomon shrugs it off, though, because he now knows more about them than he thought he ever would, and all of their secrets are his to use or abuse as he sees fit.  
  
That being said, he fully acknowledges that abusing them incorrectly could effectively be signing his own death warrant, so most of the time, he stays out of the way.  
  
It’s midday, and he’s up at the roof garden, inspecting some pitiful attempts at growing lettuce. He’s not sure who tried, but they obviously didn’t know enough to really do a good job. But hey, they at least gave it a shot. Too much of the garden is bare of any plants whatsoever.  
  
There’s no one around, and that suits him just fine. He needs the fresh air, given how long he spends on his computer at a time, and he’s found that just going up on the roof and taking the time to do nothing suits him just fine.  
  
He slumps on one of the seats near the railing, staring out at the city below without giving a fuck, when a crow lands on the railing beside him and caws loudly.  
  
Solomon jumps to his feet and nearly trips over, forced to grab the railing to steady himself. “Fuck!” 

The crow caws curiously.

“Don’t do that, man,” Solomon tells him, trying to calm himself, his heart pounding in his chest. “You fucking scared the shit outta me.”

His new friend moves from the railing to the top of Solomon’s seat in a flurry of wings and looks up at him, his expression cynical.

“So what’s happening?” Solomon asks, wondering if he’ll get anything like a coherent response. Crows understand him, and he can mostly understand them, but they seem to find it entertaining to fuck around with him instead of actually trying to converse.

Before the crow can reply (or not), a loud, raucous laugh sounds from behind them. Solomon flinches and turns, not sure what to expect, and suppresses a sigh: it’s the Ascension, both staring at him mockingly.

How surprising.

For all their mystique, the Ascension are just plain bullies: perched at the top of the heap, they love to lord it over everyone else in every way they can. Solomon’s avoided their mockery before now, but it appears that his luck has just run out.

Behind them stand a few other superstars who seem to be paying attention, but Solomon’s attention is focused on the immediate threat, and he wonders whether he can get the switchblade in his pocket into his hand without any of them noticing, just in case he needs to cut a bitch up. After all, that’s why he’s got it there in the first place. The conspiracy left its mark on him, and now he won’t go anywhere without a switchblade to keep him safe.  
  
Viktor sneers. “Found a girlfriend, Crowe?”  
  
Solomon says nothing, his hand slowly moving to his pocket. If these fuckers want a fight, they’ll get one. Talking’s gonna be useless, though.  
  
The crow lets out an angry caw, screaming  _You want some? You fucking want some? Come get it, then!_ , and Konnor makes a swift movement with his hands, miming breaking a bone.

Or a neck.

Solomon says nothing.

His hand’s gripping his switchblade, but he forces himself to relax and let go of it. Starting a fight won’t lead to anything good, he tells himself. He’s outnumbered, even if nobody else joins in. And he doesn’t want a fight in a place where a fatal fall could easily be arranged.

No, instead, he’s got two options: fuck them up later, one by one (or both, in a carefully-arranged ambush) in a location of his choosing, or simply do nothing and elect to take revenge through his research for Hunter. He was given a list, and he’s been slowly working through it, but the Ascension have just put themselves in the Top Ten.

And maybe he’ll take whatever he finds and act on it, for once.

“Oh, for... haven’t you two got anything better to do?” a new voice asks, knocking him out of his reverie. Solomon blinks, shakes his head a little, and looks over at Charlotte, who looks very unimpressed.  
  
That’s a little surprising, to say the least. Not that he thought that Charlotte would want to get in a few kicks herself, it’s just that he has no idea why she’d care. Normally, Charlotte doesn’t really give a damn about anything that’s not related to the Women’s Division in some way- though Solomon’s pretty sure that she could take both members of the Ascension on at once and hand them their asses on a plate.  
  
Konnor holds his hands up, though he looks defensive. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
Charlotte rolls her eyes. “Sure. Just get out of here. Go on.”  
  
The crow lets out another angry caw, and Charlotte makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Don’t you two understand English?”  
  
Viktor looks like he’s going to say something, but Konnor elbows him and the two of them thunder down the stairs without so much as a word or a glance in Charlotte's direction. Pussies. 

Well, all right, to be fair, it is the wisest move, given that Charlotte has something of a special status amongst the NXT crew. It’s not just that she’s the daughter of Ric Flair, or that she’s the NXT Women’s Champion.  
  
No, in the end, it all comes down to one thing: everyone knows that Hunter wishes that Ric Flair was his dad, so he’s _very_ nice to Ric Flair’s actual kid. And it also means that she’s one person who Solomon won’t be doing any research on, because Hunter will never ask him to, and he’s not stupid enough to suggest it.  
  
She stares down at the Ascension as they clatter down the stairs with visible disgust, and then turns to Solomon. “Sorry about those idiots.”  
  
Solomon tries to speak, coughs, clears his throat and tries again. “Not your fault,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the wind. “Thank you.” 

Keep it simple, he tells himself. Just blend into the background. You don’t matter. Don’t give anyone a reason to give a fuck about you.  
  
Charlotte nods, turns away and walks down the stairs herself, and Solomon resists the urge to sigh in relief. He can’t tell whether Charlotte just doesn’t care, or whether she doesn’t like him, but either way, she obviously doesn’t give a fuck about the situation now that it’s been resolved.  
  
So instead, he turns back to the crow, who looks up at him with bright, intelligent eyes.

“Thanks for sticking up for me,” Solomon says quietly.  
  
The crow moves from the railing to the bench, rapidly flapping his wings, and lands next to Solomon, tilting his head from side to side. Solomon extends a hand experimentally, and the crow strokes his finger with his beak.

He doesn’t try to stroke his new friend; after all, as friendly as the crows always are, he's never met this crow before. He doesn't want to scare him.  
  
“That is _so cool._ ”  
  
Startled, Solomon turns around and sees Alexa Bliss standing a few feet away. Huh.  
  
In the few months since he’s arrived, he’s sorted the NXT crew into two groups: the predictable, and the wild cards. Most of the group are predictable, of course. It’s not always a good thing, given that people like the Ascension are easy to predict, and they’re normally not doing anything good.  
  
It’s the wild cards that Solomon’s always wary of. People like Becky Lynch, and Corey Graves, and Tyler Breeze…  
  
…and Alexa Bliss.  
  
As cute as she seems, Solomon doesn’t trust her at all. Sure, she’s always nice and cute and sweet, but unlike Bayley, who either isn’t very smart or has a depressing lack of common sense, Alexa seems quite intelligent, but very mysterious. After all, there’s no way that Bliss is her real last name, and he has no idea why she first said she was from ‘the University of Bliss’. She doesn’t give a lot away, and it’s for that reason that Solomon is very, very suspicious of her.

And yeah, OK, there’s lots of people in NXT who give nothing away, but none of them have put up such an obvious façade for no obvious reason.  
  
A sharp pain explodes in his finger, and he snaps out of his reverie, swears and realises two things: one, he’s been staring past her for the past few minutes, and two, his crow friend stopped being patient and pecked the shit out of his finger.  
  
“Fuck! Sorry,” he says roughly, wiping his bleeding finger on his shirt.  
  
The crow hops onto his shoulder, and Alexa cautiously walks around to the other end of the bench. “Uh… may I?”  
  
“Sure,” Solomon says as casually as he can, wincing at the pain throbbing through his finger, casting a glare over at the crow, who looks back at him innocently.  
  
“How do you do that?” she asks, eyes wide. “He’s not your pet, is he?”

“Pets are _wrong_ ,” someone else says, and they both turn to see CJ Parker, glaring at Solomon with the fury of a thousand recyclable suns. “Animals deserve better than to be caged for the whims of selfish humans!”

“They’re not my pets, CJ,” Solomon says patiently. 

Parker keeps glaring. “They’d better not be. I’ll be watching you, _Crowe_. If you hurt one feather on that poor bird’s head…”

“Oh, fuck off, Parker,” Alexa says. “He’s not doing anything.”

The crow caws angrily at Parker, who sneers and storms off, muttering to himself.

 Solomon trades a rueful glance with Alexa, trying to ignore his aching finger.

“No problem,” she replies. “Parker annoys the shit out of everyone. Even your…”

The crow tilts his head, and Solomon shrugs. “Friend. They’re not my pets, more like my friends. I guess. They like me, I don’t know why.”  
  
The crow caws, and Solomon understands what it’s saying: _Figure it out yourself, dumbass._  
  
So, pretty much like all his friends.

The crow hops back down to the bench, does his hop-bounce over and onto Alexa’s knee, and flaps its wings. Alexa lets out a little squeal as he lands on her, but she doesn’t move away, which earns her a point in Solomon’s book.  
  
“Don’t move too much,” Solomon advises her awkwardly. “At least, not if you want it to stay put.”  
  
She obediently goes still, and the crow reaches up, takes the end of her hair in his beak, and experimentally yanks it.  
  
She winces a bit, but says nothing, and after a few more tugs, the crow lets go and hops back to Solomon.  
  
“Having fun there?” Solomon asks him, a tad exasperated, and he caws once before he takes off, circling around their heads and flying off into the sky.  
  
They both stare after it, watching the black dot get ever more distant, and once he vanishes, they both stay seated, feeling the silence grow ever more awkward by the second.  
  
Solomon looks at her, unsure of what, if anything, to say next, and his gaze falls on the blue tips of her hair.  
  
And… wait.  
  
Is that…?  
  
He squints a little, trying to get a better look, and she realises what he’s doing, mutters some excuse and gets up, heading downstairs, moving her hair to cover her throat.  
  
Solomon stares after her, wondering who gave her the bruises on her neck, and asks himself if it’d be a breach of privacy to find out for his own reasons, because they look damn vicious.  
  
Well, it’s not like he hasn’t been committing crimes since he was a teenager.  
  
Still. It feels wrong.  
  
_That’s rich,_ he says to himself.

God knows why. It’s not like she’s actually his friend. It’s not like he has any reason to give a fuck about her.

Still. Just because he’s a criminal, it doesn’t make him totally amoral.  
  
In theory.

  
  
That night, Solomon leaves the apartment building and catches a cab to an upmarket hotel half an hour away, in a quiet part of town.  
  
As opulent as it is on the inside, it’s a very unremarkable building on the outside, because the hotel’s entire reputation- or gimmick, if one wants to put it that way- hinges on how nondescript it looks. It looks like every other building on the street, and apart from a modest plaque with the hotel’s address, there’s no sign or other way to tell what it is. A perfect place for celebrities who don’t want publicity, secret meetings, affairs, or the occasional rendezvous with friends.  
  
Hunter moves between Florida and his own home regularly, of course, but the hotel isn’t where he usually stays. It’s just the place he’s chosen to have his meetings with Solomon.  
  
He steps into the lobby, out of the rain, and keeps his head down, surveying the few people around: the polite receptionist at the desk, two people standing in front of the desk and someone else waiting for the elevator. Nobody he recognises, nobody who stands out. Coast’s clear.  
  
He fishes in his pocket and pulls out the keycard for room 206. He’s not feeling too inclined to take the elevator, so he heads to the stairs at the far end of the lobby. Normally, he’d take them two at a time, but he doesn’t want to stand out. He already feels awkward enough being in this place.  
  
The second floor’s blissfully empty, at least. In a minute, he’s standing in front of room 206, and he takes a second to check.  
  
Keycard, check. Backpack, check. Report in said backpack, check. Wallet, keys, phone, check. Awesome.  
  
He debates taking his jacket off, decides against it, and knocks twice.  
  
Rather than wait, he swipes the card and heads inside.  
  
The décor’s simple, but it’s the really, really rich version of simple: plush carpet, upmarket furniture, soft lighting, expensive appliances. Hunter’s seated at the table, his cell phone to his ear, his briefcase open on the table, and he looks up as Solomon enters and gestures to him to sit down without speaking.  
  
Solomon does so, setting his backpack down next to him, and he pulls the report out and sets it on the table.  
  
Hunter talks in a low, quiet voice, occasionally making large gestures even though whoever he’s talking to can’t see him, and Solomon doesn’t bother trying to overhear the conversation, not that he even needs to. They both know that Solomon’s got quite a lot of information about Hunter, and Hunter’s apparently accepted it just fine. After all, there’s no such thing as being too careful, even though Solomon’s accepted that Hunter isn’t going to try fucking him over- at least, not any time soon.

When he does, Solomon will be ready.  
  
He’s getting kinda bored, tapping his fingers on the table and staring around the room, even though there’s not much to stare at. Hunter hasn’t brought a lot this time, though that means pretty much nothing. He’s not a predictable man, and Solomon knows better than to try.  
  
“I’m afraid I have to go,” Hunter says quietly, and Solomon looks up. “But I’ll call you back tomorrow, all right? Good. Goodbye.”  
  
He hangs up and turns the phone off, setting it down with a _thud_.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”  
  
Solomon just shrugs: he’s never been one for the usual polite bullshit.  
  
“What have you got for me?” Hunter asks bluntly.  
  
Solomon hands him the report in its thick envelope, and watches as Hunter pulls it out and starts reading over it.  
  
They’re essentially biographies, the pertinent parts of someone’s life summed up in twenty or so pages. In this case, it’s Carmella’s life.  
  
Solomon mostly stays away from the so-called Realest Guys and their intriguing new friend, mainly because that much personality in one room is far too much for him. And the ‘love triangle’ shit is just exhausting, honestly- though it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that there is no love triangle, just Enzo being appalled that Carmella’s nicer to men who actually treat her well. Then again, nobody ever accused Enzo of being particularly intelligent.  
  
That being said, he agrees that it’s just a bit too coincidental that the friend that Enzo and Big Cass got fired just _happened_ to be both willing to go from being a hairdresser to a wrestler- two very different careers, after all- and fit enough to get started right away. He doesn’t have a real reason in mind, and admittedly, he thinks that Hunter’s just a tad paranoid, but still. There’s no such thing as too cautious, Hunter would say, and as much as Solomon hates to agree with authority, he’ll agree on this one.  
  
Hunter looks up from skimming the report, his eyes intense. “No evidence of foul play?”  
  
Solomon shakes his head. “None that I could see.”  
  
Hunter nods grimly. “Just as I thought.”  
  
Solomon frowns, unsure of what’s coming next, but Hunter returns to reading instead of continuing.  
  
A few more pages in, he looks up. “Any sign that Amore or Cassady could be involved in anything?”  
  
Solomon shrugs. “You didn’t tell me to look for that.”  
  
Hunter looks back down at the report without another word, and Solomon feels his cheeks flush.  
  
It’s one of Hunter’s talents: even if the answer given is accurate but inadequate; as valid as the speaker could ascertain, but not 100% guaranteed accurate; or just a simple admission that the speaker was unable to find an answer, he still manages to make said speaker feel ashamed of their inadequacies without speaking a word.  
  
(Bastard.)  
  
Once he’s finished skimming the report, Hunter sets it down and leans back in his chair, his arms folded. “I’ll have to read it in more detail, but it looks good. Thank you.”  
  
Solomon nods, and remains silent.  
  
Even after several months of working for Hunter, he doesn’t feel any less like he’s doing something very wrong. Not just because he could easily end up in prison for it, but also because he’s living in a building full of people who would happily tear him apart if they knew what he was doing.

It’s not just the questionable morality of his actions. There’s something about Hunter, an air of dismissive superiority that makes Solomon both pissed off and cowed. He hates it, and as a result, he tries to spend as little time interacting with Hunter as possible, which includes talking to him.  
  
Hunter raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t comment. “Now, for your next project…”  
  
“I was thinking of doing one on the Ascension,” Solomon says in a rush, his eyes on the table.  
  
Hunter smirks, and Solomon doesn’t even need to look up to know it. “Really? Why would that be?”  
  
Solomon shrugs, his cheeks burning.  
  
“Well, whatever problem you have with them is going to have to wait,” Hunter says decisively. “There’s someone else who needs to go first.”  
  
“Who? Why?”  
  
“Corey Graves,” Hunter says slowly. “As for _why_ , well… call it simple curiosity, shall we?”  
  
Solomon nods again. He knows that ‘simple curiosity’ is definitely bullshit, but he’s just not interested enough to care. His storeroom of fucks is empty tonight, and he probably won’t get more in stock any time soon.  
  
“So, then,” Hunter says. “How soon can you get started?”  
  
“Tonight,” Solomon replies. It’s true, but even if it wasn’t, it’d still be the answer he’d give. It’s not that he lies to Hunter… that much, it’s just that he likes keeping Hunter happy- or at least, satisfied enough that he won’t turn his paranoid gaze on Solomon.  
  
“Good,” Hunter says. “Also, there’s something else I need.”  
  
Solomon looks up, a little startled. _What the fuck is it now?_  
  
“You said you didn’t find any sign that Amore or Cassady could be up to something because you weren’t looking for it,” Hunter begins.  
  
Solomon thinks he knows where this is going. “You want me to look for it?”  
  
“Sort of,” Hunter replies. “You can see all the emails sent by the NXT roster, right?”  
  
Solomon nods, a little confused.  
  
“And the texts? Skype messages? Everything along those lines?”  
  
Solomon nods again.  
  
“I have a list,” Hunter says, pulling an envelope from his briefcase and sliding it across the table. “Email addresses, phone numbers, Skype accounts, and the like. I want you to look for them in the list of people contacted by my roster. If anyone has so much as sent a text to one of those numbers, tell me _immediately-_ and if you can, look back through the past year or so, as well. Can you do it?”  
  
Solomon opens the envelope, takes out the paper inside and peruses it. There’s maybe twenty items on the list.  
  
“I can do it,” he says slowly. “But it’s going to take a while. Which do you want first, this list or the Graves report?”  
  
“You can’t do both at once?” Hunter asks, with that little sneer on his face, the one that subtly implies that Solomon isn’t half as good as everyone thinks.  
  
“I can do it,” Solomon says, trying not to let the sneer get to him. “But if I do, you won’t be getting either of them soon.” 

“How long would it take?” Hunter asks.

Solomon thinks about it and shrugs. “A month? Maybe?”  
  
Hunter shrugs affably. “That’s fine. Look, I’d say that the list takes a greater priority, by which I mean that the _moment_ you find that someone’s been talking to someone on that list, you drop everything and call me, understand?”  
  
“I understand,” Solomon says steadily. “Do you suspect anyone in particular?”  
  
Hunter’s face goes from determined to guarded, and Solomon gets the message.  
  
Sometimes he wonders how they’re meant to have a decent working relationship when Hunter clearly doesn’t trust him, but of course, he’s probably got someone else checking up on Solomon. And besides, it’s not like Solomon has any actual investment in this shit.  
  
So he lets the matter drop as smoothly as he can manage. “That’s all?”  
  
Hunter frowns slightly, but evidently decides to let it pass. “Yes, that’s all.”  
  
Solomon glances over at the clock next to the bed and nods. “I’d better be going, then.”  
  
Hunter’s reading the report again and doesn’t even look up, and Solomon sighs inwardly. Classic Hunter.  
  
He slides the envelope into his backpack and leaves. 

 

 

It’s still raining outside, but at least it isn’t long before he’s back at the building, looking around cautiously as he walks in.  
  
God knows why. It’s not like anyone’s going to come after him. After all, nobody knows what he’s doing.

( _Yet_ , some tiny voice in the back of his mind whispers, and he tells it to shut up. No point in thinking about that shit.)  
  
There’s no point in taking the stairs- too many flights, and he’s not in the mood. Instead, he takes the elevator, and soon he’s back in his apartment- or, as he likes to call it, his nest.

Just his little joke.  
  
He paces down the hall to bedroom, sits down at his desk and opens his laptop, staring at the screen pensively.  
  
He can’t quite shake the feeling that something isn’t right about this new job- about both of them, to be honest. No idea why, of course, but his instincts are screaming at him to sit up and pay attention.  
  
That being said, even if he does figure out what, if anything, is wrong, what he could possibly do about it? Hunter’s got him over so many barrels that there’s nothing he can do without risking reprisals, and there’s a very good chance that if he tries anything, he’ll have most of America’s law enforcement agencies after him.

So with that, there’s really only one thing he’s inclined to do right now, and that’s his job.  
  
He kicks his sneakers and socks off, grabs a beer and gets started.

 

 

Three hours later, Solomon’s moved to the den with his laptop and a lot of beer. His head is buzzing, full of names and email addresses and numbers.

Admittedly, the five or so beers he’s had didn’t help, but it’s already been a long day, and it’s not like Hunter expects him to get both jobs done by the end of the night.  
  
He’s about to call it a night when another email pops up, and he rolls his eyes and calls it up.  
  
With the combination of tiredness and alcohol messing with his brain, it takes him a few seconds to comprehend the two most important things about the email: first, it’s to him, and second, he doesn’t recognise the sender’s address. There’s no subject, and all he can tell is that there’s only one thing in the email: a photo of some kind.  
  
His curiosity awakened, he runs a quick sweep for malware and comes up with nothing.  
  
He opens the attachment and freezes.  
  
It’s a photo of him stepping out of the cab he caught to the hotel that night.  
  
Almost automatically, he grabs the list Hunter gave him, but the address used to send the photo isn’t on it.  
  
He does his best to go through his mental archive of addresses, but he doesn’t get a match, though the alcohol isn’t helping.  
  
With no luck on those fronts, he turns back to the photo.  
  
As far as he can tell, it was taken from the building opposite the hotel. Solomon does a quick search on the building, and finds that it’s just an upmarket apartment block. Hmmm.  
  
So someone was in that building. Someone with a camera.  
  
And of course, he forgot the most important thing: looking around is all well and good, but if you don’t look up, you’re just leaving yourself open to all kinds of assaults.  
  
Suddenly sober, he resolves to never make that mistake again.  
  
Another email pops up, and Solomon freezes again when he sees that it’s from the same address, with another photo.  
  
This one shows him walking into the hotel, and he’s not surprised at all when yet another email turns up in his inbox, quickly followed by others.  
  
The third photo shows him and Hunter, seated at the table, and more emails keep coming in.  
  
The fourth: Hunter flicking through the report.  
  
The fifth: Hunter talking to him.  
  
The sixth: Hunter handing him the envelope.  
  
The seventh: Solomon on his way out, picking up his backpack.  
  
The eighth: Solomon getting into the other cab.  
  
The ninth: Solomon walking into the apartment building.  
  
And it’s the tenth that makes him bite his lip so hard he tastes blood: it’s him in the den, his laptop open and a beer in his hand.  
  
He slides the laptop onto the couch, gets up and walks out onto the balcony, staring into the night, looking for anything out of the ordinary.  
  
Directly opposite him, there’s a sudden flare of light, probably from someone’s cigarette lighter. It’s not enough that Solomon can make out any details, but he has no doubt that it’s his unknown correspondent, taunting him.

Somewhere out in the darkness, a crow caws loudly, a harsh, rasping caw that’s almost like a snarl.

Solomon turns around, walks back to the couch and sits down, his hands barely trembling.  
  
Then he writes a quick reply: _You’ve made your point. What do you want?_  
  
In about a minute, he gets a reply, and as usual, there’s a photo: Solomon on his balcony, looking for the unknown correspondent. 

Solomon wasn’t expecting anything less.  
  
Underneath it are two words: _To talk._  
  
_Where and when?_ Solomon types back, nearly misspelling _when_ a few times, his fingers are trembling so badly.  
  
_Try guessing. It shouldn’t be too hard,_ the reply reads, with another photo of Solomon at his laptop. _After all, you’re checking up on me as we speak, aren’t you?_  
  
Oh.  
  
Huh. 

Solomon pauses and switches to one of his disposable email accounts, the ones he keeps around just for situations like this.  
  
_Graves, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?_ Solomon types.  
  
At least that clears one thing up. The emails were all sent to his NXT email address- everyone in NXT is required to make one for official communications- and not any of his private addresses. Graves isn’t stupid, Solomon knows, but none of this is hard, exactly. Any idiot can operate a camera, and it wouldn’t be hard for Graves to find out his NXT email address. They’re not exactly public, but it’s not hard to find them out, especially if one is already on the roster.

That being said, there’s a rather pressing question: how the fuck did Graves know that Solomon’s checking up on him?  
  
_Come find out,_ the reply reads. There’s no attachment, and Solomon sighs, getting the message.  
  
Well.  
  
This should be interesting, at least.

 

  
  
Solomon spends the next week dividing his time between researching Graves and checking up on the lists. His preferred task would have been finding Graves and discovering what the fuck he’s playing at, but there’s one minor problem: Graves is on leave, apparently on ‘family business’.  
  
Everyone else in NXT- and most crucially, Hunter- has accepted this, but Solomon knows better. He doesn’t know whether this is a test or some fucked-up game, but he’s on his guard more than he’s ever been.

He checked out the address Graves used to send him the emails the day after he got them, but much to his delight and lack of surprise, it’s no longer a valid address. How unexpected.  
  
Though admittedly, the delight is simply because he likes knowing that he’s dealing with an adversary who isn’t a complete moron.  
  
So he works out, trains, does his work like a good boy and ponders how, exactly, he’s going to find Graves.

  
On the third night, he gets an answer, of sorts: another disposable email address sending him a photo of himself at his laptop.  
  
Under it is a single word: _Problems?_  
  
Solomon pauses, cracks his knuckles and switches to another address of his own.  
  
_What the hell did you expect? You drop this shit and just vanish, why should I give a fuck? I’m not going to play your stupid games, Graves._  
  
He frowns as he presses the send button, not knowing what he’ll get back.  
  
_This isn’t a game. It’s important._ Really _important. But I can’t explain, not in an email. We need to meet. I’m due back next Monday. It needs to be before then._

 _It’s that dangerous?_ Solomon types, intrigued despite himself. _How bad are we talking?_  
  
_Pretty fucking bad._  
  
_Fine. Tell me where and when._

_Too easy. If you get a nobler attitude, then maybe you’ll find out._

_The fuck does that even_ mean? Solomon asks, exasperated.  
  
_Sober up and think about it, Crowe. It’s not that hard to understand. For most people._

 _Oh, go fuck yourself_ , Solomon replies, officially done with the conversation.

He deletes the emails, ditches the email and quickly removes all traces of them from his computer. It’s not a perfect solution; anyone in his computer right now could easily have seen it, though he doubts that anyone’s made their way past his defences. He does another check, just to be sure, and comes up with nothing.  
  
Once that’s done, he steps out onto the balcony and takes deep breaths, letting the cold night air clear his head a little.

Despite the late hour, a crow lands on the railing next to him and caws a greeting.

He smiles down at her and sways a little, grabbing the railing for support.

The crow looks at him, pauses for a second and then hop-bounces over to where he’s holding the railing, nearly falling at one point, though she manages to not fall.

Then she pecks his hand hard.

“Fuck!” Solomon says, letting go of the railing and nearly falling on his ass. “What the hell was that for?”

She looks up at him with a frozen glare and lets out a loud caw. With that, she flies away, leaving Solomon to consider what she said: _Be careful._

The cold’s getting to him, and the back of his hand is stained red. Muttering another curse, Solomon heads back inside.

 

  
After some careful consideration, Solomon concludes that there’s three potential explanations: first, Graves is stalking him, playing a fucked-up game to get Solomon into his bed. 

Possible. Unlikely, but possible. In Solomon’s opinion, if Graves really was stalking someone, he wouldn’t go about it like that.

Then again, what does he really know?

Second, Graves somehow found out what Solomon’s really up to, and his intention is to get Solomon alone somewhere that nobody else knows about so he can fuck Solomon up- or maybe to beg him to falsify the report somehow. Solomon hasn’t found any major secrets that could ruin Graves’ life yet, but they might well be around.  
  
It’s possible, and considerably more likely than the first explanation.

The third is that the emails weren’t from Graves at all; instead, they were from someone who’s pretending to be Graves to draw him in, and who is using Graves legitimately being on leave as ‘proof’. 

Also very plausible. Still, if it isn’t Graves, it’s definitely somebody worth checking out, because they know a hell of a lot more than they should. Maybe worth playing along with.

At least he has a lead now. The line about getting a nobler attitude could mean one of four people, if it means what Solomon thinks it means: William Regal, Carmella, Tyler Breeze, or Baron Corbin.  
  
He’s pretty sure he can rule out Carmella and Tyler Breeze almost immediately- Carmella because while he doesn’t doubt that the Princess of Staten Island and her friends could hide someone if they needed to, he just can’t see Graves getting involved with them. As for Tyler, the King of Cuteville could definitely hide someone, at least in theory, but Solomon isn’t sure that Tyler has the right kind of temperament to do it in practice. That, and he knows for sure that Tyler wouldn’t do Graves any favours, though if Graves had something on Breeze, it might be possible.  
  
Regal is another matter. On the one hand, Regal’s inability to not flirt with anything young and male might have led to an ‘encounter’ or two with Graves, and that in turn might have disposed Regal to hide him. He’s certainly got the ability and resources to swing it, especially since as the NXT GM, Regal’s the one who approves people on leave, though Hunter’s signature makes it official.  
  
On the other hand, though, Regal clearly loves being the NXT GM, and Solomon thinks it’d take something very, very serious to make him go behind Hunter’s back. It’s true that Graves continually talked about wanting to discuss something important, but if it’s important enough that _William Regal_ is involved, Solomon’s not sure that it’s anything he can help with.  
  
Baron Corbin is another matter. Given how much the man conceals, Solomon’s surprised that he wasn’t first on the list to investigate. With his refusal to talk and the lack of information about him, Solomon’s always been very, very wary of him.  
  
That, and he knows for a fact that Graves and Corbin are good friends.  
  
Still, that’s only the first part of the equation. Unless Graves told Corbin to talk to Solomon, getting information out of him is going to be very, very difficult.  
  
It’s going to take planning.  
  
So Solomon plans.


	3. watch as we go down in flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no such thing as a simple conspiracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, I am so sorry that this took so long. I got a really, really bad case of writer's block a while back, and it's taken a long, long time to wear off. What's worse is that in this case, I had most of the story written and I've been stuck on the ending for weeks, which is one of the most frustrating feelings on the planet. The chapter title is from 'Want' by Recoil. No, I don't actually believe that there's a conspiracy going on in NXT, it's probably just an accident of circumstances. Hope you all like it, and thanks for reading!

The next day, Baron Corbin walks out of his locker room after his morning workout and finds Solomon leaning against the wall next to the door.  
  
His response instantly convinces Solomon that he was right: rather than staring blackly or just walking off, Corbin pauses- and call the press, he actually speaks.  
  
“What do you want?” he asks bluntly, eyes dark. His tone is less ‘unfriendly’ and more ‘ready to rip some throats out’, and Solomon has to remind himself to stay calm.  
  
“I got a few emails yesterday,” he replies as casually as he can manage. “From someone alleging to be a certain heavily-tattooed friend of yours on ‘leave’-”  
  
Corbin takes a quick, furtive look around the hallway, and, seeing no one else there, grabs Solomon’s arm, hauls him back into the empty locker room and shoves him onto one of the benches.  
  
“Don’t fucking talk so loud,” he hisses, his gaze black as coal.  
  
“Graves didn’t exactly give me any other options,” Solomon replies as steadily as he can. “All he did was tell me to talk to you.”  
  
“We can’t talk here,” Corbin snaps. “It’s not safe.”  
  
Solomon bites his lip, irritated as hell. “So where the hell can we talk? Because he left that out of the ‘instructions’-”  
  
“Meet me here at five,” Corbin says flatly.

Solomon can tell that no arguments will be accepted, so he nods once and walks out.

He swears that he can feel Corbin’s eyes on his back even when the door swings shut, but he doesn’t look behind him, not even once.

  
  
In the time he’s got before five o’clock comes, he gets prepared. He works out, showers, packs his backpack, even gets bit of work in on the report.  
  
And he writes a careful note meant to look like a casual reminder, one that clearly says that he’s off to meet with Corbin. He leaves it on his desk near his computer, surveys the result and nods.  
  
On the one hand, if anything happens to him, it’s an honest lead. On the other hand, if the meeting with Graves checks out and he ends up being away for longer than he thinks- or if someone (namely Hunter- or more realistically, someone working for him) breaks into his apartment, he’s sure that Corbin can refute all accusations easily enough until Solomon gets back. They’ve worked a few matches together, Corbin can just claim that they were going to practice some spots for future matches or something like that.  
  
At five on the dot, he’s outside Corbin’s locker room, geared up for war.  
  
Corbin emerges from the locker room, carrying a helmet under his arm. He stares at Solomon critically, says nothing and makes a quick ‘come on’ gesture.  
  
Solomon shrugs and follows him through the corridors, down to the garage. Corbin’s motorcycle is parked in the far corner, another helmet on its seat, and when the pair reach it, Corbin hands Solomon the helmet he’s carrying, slipping the other one over his head.  
  
Solomon eyes the helmet critically, but he puts it on without a word. It’s not his first time on a motorcycle, but that doesn’t make him feel any easier about this.  
  
“Done it before?” Corbin asks, his voice a little muffled.  
  
Solomon nods.  
  
“Good. Don’t fall off.”  
  
With those encouraging words, Corbin swings into position, waiting for Solomon to awkwardly climb on behind him. The engine starts with a roar, and once Solomon’s settled, Corbin takes off at a much faster pace than Solomon likes.  
  
Fucker.

 

  
By the end of the ride, Solomon is thoroughly terrified, and he has no idea whether Corbin’s doing it intentionally or whether that’s just how he normally drives. Either way, it’s fucking terrifying.  
  
It’s not that Corbin’s an unsafe driver, as such. It’s more that he’s too good: he swerves to avoid potential collisions at the last moment, he weaves in and out of traffic so smoothly that he generates near-misses by the second, and he goes so fast that Solomon’s perpetually terrified that someone’s going to move and Corbin won’t be able to stop in time.

Each time, they dodge the collision in a way that makes Solomon feel stupid for thinking that they could have crashed, but in hindsight, it doesn’t feel any less terrifying. Whether it’s skill or luck he doesn’t know, but he has a feeling that the fucker’s probably doing it on purpose. Probably.  
  
In the end, they reach their destination safe and sound, but that doesn’t stop Solomon from counting every time they nearly died again and again.  
  
He’s so distracted, in fact, that it takes him a while to realise where he is.  
  
He has to admit, if that was Corbin’s aim, he did a damn good job achieving it.  
  
He knows this part of town. It’s not a good one, though the building they’re in is clean, obviously occupied and doesn’t have any noticeable graffiti on the walls or trash on the floor, so that’s a plus.  
  
They’re in the parking garage of what Solomon guesses is probably an apartment building. There’s a few other cars parked, ranging from shitty wrecks to flashy sports cars, but instead of pulling into an empty space, Corbin parks next to the only other motorcycle in the garage, a small, unremarkable dark blue motorbike.  
  
Solomon manages to climb off without falling to the ground in a heap, though his legs are stiff and he’s still terrified. He pulls the helmet off and unceremoniously plonks it back on the seat.  
  
“Anyone ever tell you, you drive like a fucking maniac?” he asks Corbin.  
  
Corbin takes his helmet off, turns to Solomon and smiles.  
  
If Corbin staring was intimidating, Corbin smiling is straight out of a fucking horror movie. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. Instead, he gestures to the helmet and jerks his head toward the near corner of the garage.  
  
Mutely, Solomon picks up the helmet and heads toward the corner elevator.

 

While being alone in an elevator with Baron Corbin is fucking nerve-wracking, there’s one thing that comforts Solomon: as the doors shut, a crow caws from somewhere in the distance.  
  
Somehow, knowing that his friends are around always soothes him.  
  
The elevator stops at the third floor, and Solomon follows Corbin to the second apartment. The corridor is grey on grey, just a straight line with door after door and light filtering in through the dusty windows, and Solomon feels a prickling sensation on the back of his neck.  
  
He doesn’t like this place. There’s something about it that just feels _wrong_ , and the more he thinks about it, the more things come to mind: it’s in a bad part of town but there’s no graffiti or trash; there’s everything from near-wrecks to brand new sports cars in the garage; and now this corridor, with its spooky stillness that makes him feel like someone’s watching him, even though there’s nowhere they could conceivably watch _from_.  
  
It’s like being in fucking _Silent Hill_ or something.  
  
Corbin pulls a keyring out of his pocket, knocks twice and then finds the right key. He unlocks the door, shoves it open, turns back to Solomon and gestures.  
  
Solomon nods and follows him in.  
  
The door opens into a huge living room, fully furnished: a long couch, an old TV, a table and chairs. A thin, colorful rug on the floor, generic paintings of beaches on the walls, a full bookshelf against the far wall.  
  
Given how quiet and empty the rest of the building is- as far as Solomon’s seen, at least- the effect clashes, making Solomon blink a few times and shake his head briskly.

Corbin walks across to the other door and knocks heavily on it. There’s no response, but he seems satisfied.

Solomon stares, confused. “Now what?”

Corbin shrugs and walks back to the door they came in by.

They wait for maybe half a minute, Solomon’s hand gripping the switchblade in his pocket all the while, until the door Corbin knocked on opens and Graves strolls in, nodding casually at Solomon. His clothes and hair are rumpled and dishevelled, but he’s as confident as always, and he gives Solomon a smile that could almost be called flirtatious, if Solomon was feeling masochistic. “Good. You’re here. I’ve been waiting all week, took you long enough.”

Corbin casually leans against the door and crosses his arms, never looking away from Solomon.

The message is so obvious that it makes Solomon want to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he switches his tone to _not to be fucked with_. “Yeah, I’m here. You wanted to talk? Get started.”  
  
“Sit down,” Graves says, and it’s less of an invitation than an order. Solomon narrows his eyes, but he obeys, sitting on the end of the couch and setting his backpack down next to him.  
  
“Where the fuck are we?” Solomon asks, wanting to get it out of the way. “This place is fucking weird, what are we doing here?”

“This place was ‘condemned’ about ten years ago,” Graves says. “Officially, it’s a derelict building. Unofficially, it’s anything but. Cops leave it alone, and nobody comes here unless they have business. People use it to hide out, for meetings, other stuff, you get the picture. I borrowed this apartment for a week from a guy I know. ”  
  
Somehow, Solomon doubts that the ‘other stuff’ is very legal. That being said, he doesn’t think he wants to know.  
  
“All right,” Solomon says slowly. “So what happened? Why go to this extent to stay hidden?”  
  
“You’re working for Triple H,” Graves says slowly. “You’re the one he’s got doing files on everyone, hacking their computers.”  
  
“What makes you say that?” Solomon asks evenly. _Don’t confirm anything. Don’t say the wrong thing._  
  
“I’m spying for him too,” Graves replies, his voice quiet. “He mentioned it to me a while ago. Told me he’d get you to show everyone every skeleton in my closet if I step out of line.”  
  
Huh.

So… it’s a conspiracy, then.

Solomon smiles a little, fingering the switchblade in his pocket. He _loves_ conspiracies.  
  
“ _You’re_ working for him?” Solomon asks. “What the hell do you do for him?”  
  
“Announcing isn’t exactly a full-time job,” Graves says slowly. “So I got a lot of spare time on my hands. Trips asked me to join up with him after I got concussed. The docs wouldn’t let me get back in the ring and I had fuck all else to do, so Trips got me on his side while he was looking for something else for me to do. He’s got me spying on the other wrestlers.”  
  
Solomon raises a cynical eyebrow.  
  
“Not like you,” Graves explains. “I barely know how to turn a computer on. No, I go to all the parties, so I just buy the drinks and listen in, get people to tell me what they’re thinking.”  
  
“For what?” Solomon asks. “What the hell does Hunter want?”  
  
Graves raises his eyebrows in turn. “Hunter? You’re on first-name terms with him?”  
  
“He insisted,” Solomon replies levelly, not liking the implication.  
  
“He wants to know how we feel about all this,” Graves says. “About NXT, about the main roster, about him and Vince and Stephanie.”  
  
“ _Why?”_  
  
“I don’t know. But you must know that right now, there’s a war going on behind the scenes.”  
  
Solomon knows. He’d have had to be blind to not have noticed, after all. The way the quality of the main shows keeps dropping, the way NXT is always praised, the way Hunter plays the dutiful son-in-law and employee on the main roster but rules NXT like a king…  
  
“And?” Solomon asks, willing Graves to get to the point.  
  
“And it freaks me out, Crowe,” Graves snaps. “Because I don’t know what the fuck is going on. I don’t know what Trips wants. I don’t know what he’s gonna do. But I want to keep everyone out of the crossfire. If Trips wants to take Vince on, fine. But I don’t want any of us getting hurt. None of us signed on for this. We signed on to wrestle, not to be fucked over.”  
  
“That’s generous of you,” Solomon replies, not sure what point, if any, Graves is trying to make. “So what’s your point? Why am I here?”

“Because I want to help you,” Graves says flatly. “And I want you to help me.”

“What?” Solomon asks, confused.

“Look, maybe you think that Trips is going to back you up if shit happens,” Graves says. “But he’s a double-dealing son of a bitch if I ever saw one. He’d sell you out in a minute if it’s to save himself or to get what he wants, and I’m in the same boat. I think he’s got his eyes on the prize. I think he wants the entire company, not just NXT. And I think he’ll use all of us to get it. But if this is a game of chess, then all the wrestlers, they’re all pawns. They deserve better than to get thrown away for a war they didn’t know they were involved in. If something happens, I want to protect them. I want to help them. They deserve better than this. _We_ deserve better than this.”

Solomon’s getting the picture now.  
  
“So, what?” he asks finally. “What the hell do you want from me?”  
  
“We need to work together,” Graves says intently, and there’s a look in his eyes that creeps Solomon out a little. Like he’d burn the world down to get what he wants, and he’s just struck a match. “Whatever Trips asks, we need to talk about it, talk about his plans. If we can figure out what he’s gonna do, we can try making sure that nobody innocent gets hurt. That’s all I want.”

Solomon considers this, turning the thoughts over in his mind.  
  
“Look,” Graves says quietly. “It doesn’t matter what he’s paying you. Trips hasn’t mellowed out, understand? Maybe he can’t go as much in the ring as he used to, but he’s still the same old scheming motherfucker we all know. Yeah, he cares about NXT, but I have no doubt that he’d sacrifice some of us to get what he wants. Maybe he already has. Maybe he threw Paige, and Emma, and Summer Rae, and Rose, and Woods, and Rusev and Lana, and Neville, and Owens to the wolves on the main roster because he _knew_ the main roster would only fuck them over. Maybe he wanted it to happen so people would want him in charge instead of Vince. Hell, maybe he asked Stephanie to help him make it happen.”  
  
That’s… fucking terrifying.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he adds. “I want NXT to succeed just as much as everyone else. But I’m not going to let Trips stab us in the back to do it.”

Solomon nods again, pensive.

Then a thought comes to his mind.  
  
“You said you’ve been here all week,” he says quietly.  
  
“So?”  
  
“So,” Solomon asks, “you weren’t the one taking the photos? You weren’t the one on the balcony?”  
  
Graves chuckles. “No. I asked a friend to do that.”  
  
Solomon turns to look at Baron Corbin, still leaning against the door with a blank expression, but Graves chuckles again. “Him? No. No, in this case, I asked someone I can trust. Someone else on Trips’ payroll.”  
  
“How many?” Solomon asks quietly.  
  
“How many what?”  
  
“How many people are on the payroll?”  
  
“Just three,” a new voice says as the door Graves came through opens again. “You, Corey, and me. But I was doing it first, before it was cool.”  
  
Well.  
  
This… is not what he’d expected.  
  
“Hello, Alexa,” Solomon says as casually as he can manage.  
  
“Hey,” she says with a radiant smile, flicking her hair over her shoulder. Her voice is rough and husky, but she seems fine. “You didn’t bring any of your friends?”  
  
Solomon shrugs. “They’re not my pets. I don’t _bring_ them anywhere. They go where they want.”  
  
“What friends?” Baron Corbin asks, his voice flat.  
  
“The crows,” Graves answers.  
  
“They’re wild animals,” Solomon adds. “They do what they want, not what I tell them.”  
  
“But you talk to them,” Alexa says curiously, like Solomon’s a mystery she’s planning to get to the bottom of.  
  
Graves shoots Solomon a curious look, and Solomon mutters a curse. “I don’t _talk_ to them. They just… fly around.”  
  
She giggles, and Solomon rolls his eyes, belatedly realising how stupid that sounded.  
  
“So what’s your part in this?” Solomon challenges her, changing the subject with a wrench.  
  
She shrugs. “Triple H gets me to listen in on the Women’s Division.”  
  
“Some of the Divas won’t give me the time of day,” Graves explains. “So he asked her instead.”  
  
She pulls a chair away from the table and sits down, leaning on the back. “Same deal as you, I think. I job for everyone, but I get paid a lot more. He keeps me out of the spotlight so nobody suspects me. Most of the others think I’m a joke, but they talk to me- and so do Paige, and Emma, and Summer, and Lana.”  
  
Solomon nods slowly. That makes a lot of sense.  
  
He glances back at her and stops. There are new bruises on her throat, dark patches that stand out against her pale skin.  
  
Now he’s uneasy.  
  
She realises what he’s looking at and scowls, moving her hair to hide the marks.  
  
The silence becomes very, very awkward.  
  
To break it, he casts his mind around for another topic and lands on Baron Corbin. “So what’s his part in this?”  
  
“He’s my friend,” Graves says quietly. “I’d trust him with my life.”  
  
Corbin just shrugs, his expression still borderline murderous.  
  
“I brought him in on this because I wanted an outside observer,” Graves continues. “Someone who isn’t doing extra work for Trips. And I wanted it to be someone who’ll always have my back.”  
  
Solomon nods. “I take it nobody else knows about any of this?”  
  
“Look, we all know that there’s a lot of idiots on the roster, and there’s even more people who are too preoccupied with other stuff to notice,” Graves says. “But there’s a few people who are smart enough to have maybe noticed a few things.”  
  
“Like who?”  
  
“Charlotte, at least,” Alexa says. “Sasha and Becky are too obsessed with themselves to notice anything else. Bayley’s stuck on her championship thing, and Carmella’s got her hands full dealing with Enzo and Big Cass. But Charlotte’s smart.”  
  
“The jobbers don’t care,” Corbin adds. “Too busy trying to get noticed.”  
  
“Zayn’s too nice to suspect anything,” Graves says. “Itami’s smart, he might have picked up on it. Bálor’s suspicious as hell, so maybe him. Neville, definitely. And Owens… he’s definitely suspicious, but I don’t know if he cares.”  
  
“So, Charlotte, Itami, Bálor, Neville and Owens at least,” Solomon muses. “What about the others? The refs, the announcers, the trainers?" 

Graves looks startled, like he’d never considered it, but he nods and thinks for a second. “Don’t think so. Most of them just do their jobs and keep their heads down. They don’t want to get noticed- they get treated like shit anyway, they’re not going to stick their necks out. Most of them won’t have a reason to care anyway- we’re the ones who are going to get fucked over, not them. They’re not performers, nobody comes to shows just to see them.”

Solomon nods slowly and files that comment away for future consideration. “So what happens if Itami or whoever picks up on it?”  
  
Alexa and Corbin both look at Graves, who shrugs. “We do our best to explain, and we hope like hell that none of them do anything stupid.”  
  
Thankfully, Solomon muses, none of them are the type to do stupid things. In theory.  
  
“What are you expecting to happen?” he asks quietly.  
  
“I don’t know,” Graves admits. “But things aren’t gonna stay quiet for long. The main roster’s only getting worse and NXT’s only getting better. Once the shit hits the fan, anyone could end up in trouble. And to be honest, it’ll probably be us three. We know what Trips is doing, so he’d probably push us under the bus first- sack us ASAP, and probably do his best to make sure no one will listen to anything we have to say. Then he’d make sure we’d never wrestle again.”  
  
Solomon laughs darkly. “What, that’s all?”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Getting cut’s the least of my worries. Maybe it never occurred to you, but hacking is illegal. And Hunter told me from the start that he has friends in high places who know exactly what I’m doing. Maybe you two would just get fired, but I’d end up in prison.”  
  
“So, you of all people should realise how important it is that we stick together,” Graves urges him.  
  
Solomon looks down.  
  
On the one hand, he understands what Graves is talking about, and he gets the point. Hunter’s ridiculous line about just _happening_ to be curious about Graves pretty much confirmed everything he said, so Solomon doesn’t doubt him.  
  
And given his own precarious position, he needs the support. He’s said it before and he’ll say it again: he’s not going to let his parents find out that he’s been a felon since he was a teenager. He won’t break their hearts. No way.  
  
But on the other hand, he’s being railroaded into it, and while he’s been railroaded since he first walked into Hunter’s office, that doesn’t make it any more bearable.  
  
He’s not quite sure what to do.  
  
Outside, a crow caws.  
  
Alexa turns, surprised, and stares out the window. “Hang on…”  
  
Graves and Corbin look at her, and she climbs off her chair, goes to the window and opens it.  
  
A crow lands on the sill. She’s very big, and Alexa steps back, either surprised or intimidated.  
  
“Great,” Graves mutters.  
  
“Shut up, Corey,” Alexa says. “I want to see this.”  
  
Solomon looks up, and the crow flies across the room, landing next to him neatly.  
  
For a second, they just stare at each other, and then the crow hop-bounces onto his lap.  
  
“You cawed?” Solomon asks.  
  
The crow caws again and pokes him in the arm with her beak.  
  
“What’s your point?” Solomon asks.  
  
The crow jumps onto his shoulder, staring around at the rest of the room.  
  
“See?” Alexa murmurs quietly. “They’re like his pets.”  
  
The crow lets out a caw that’s almost like a snarl, and Alexa recoils a little, surprised.  
  
“Not my pets,” Solomon quietly reminds her.  
  
He turns back to the crow. “So what do you think?”  
  
She pecks him lightly on the cheek, lets out a harsh cry and flies back outside, rapidly vanishing into the clear sky.  
  
“Was there a point to that?” Graves asks. “And shut the window, Bliss.”  
  
She shoots him a glare, but shuts it with a _thud_ and sits back down on her chair, looking at Solomon expectantly.  
  
Solomon shrugs.  
  
In truth, he heard what she said loud and clear: _ditch your pride, this is too important for you to fuck around with deciding._  
  
And she’s right. Because going on what Graves said, he’s fucked either way. At least this way, he might be able to mitigate some of the damage- and maybe, just maybe, he won’t end up in prison.  
  
“So what do you say?” Graves asks again.  
  
Solomon nods once, not meeting his eyes.  
  
Graves pauses and leans forward. “You don’t seem very enthusiastic.”  
  
“You didn’t exactly give me much of a choice,” Solomon snaps back.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You practically force me to play your games, lure me to a location nobody else knows about, and then you throw all this shit at me with your _friend_ blocking the one way out? Classy, Graves.”  
  
Graves looks almost taken aback. “ _What?_ ”  
  
“Corey, you’re a fucking idiot,” Alexa says, disgusted. “And Corbin, for the love of God, stop blocking the door.”  
  
Corbin looks almost amused, but he moves, leaning against the wall near her chair instead.  
  
She glares up at him. “ _Really?_ God, who taught you about subtlety?”  
  
“What’s subtlety?” he asks, and Solomon has no idea whether he means it or not.

(It’s _Baron Corbin_ , who can say?)  
  
“Why am I constantly surrounded by idiots?” she asks, throwing her hands up in despair.  
  
Corbin chuckles.  
  
She whacks him lightly on the arm. “That includes _you_ , moron.”  
  
He just chuckles again.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Graves says as contritely as he can. “I didn’t mean to do any of that. I just… didn’t think.”  
  
Alexa mutters something that Solomon guesses is along the lines of ‘Like you’ve never done _that_ before’.  
  
“Apology accepted. Uh…” Solomon says, and the moment he says it, he wishes he hadn’t. It’s none of his business, after all.  
  
“Just what?” Graves and Alexa ask at the same time.  
  
Solomon takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, this is none of my business, but… Alexa, what happened to your neck?”  
  
He knows instantly that he shouldn’t have asked: Corbin looks disapproving, Alexa’s cheeks flush with what could be shame, embarrassment or both, and Graves’ face goes blank.  
  
“It’s not what you think,” she says after a very awkward pause. “It was in training, that’s all. An accident during a match.”  
  
Solomon mutters an apology and looks away.  
  
He has no doubt that the ‘explanation’ is bullshit, but there’s no way he’s going to bring it up again.  
  
“We have to stay covert,” Graves says quickly, changing the subject. Thank God. “No calling anyone’s attention- Trips could easily get people to check up on us. Meaning we can’t be seen hanging around together in public, you get me? We have to act natural.”  
  
Solomon pauses. “If we do meet up, then, it’ll have to be in out of the way places. But not the same one too many times.”  
  
Graves nods. “I’ll be back at work next week. This isn’t my apartment, like I said- we won’t be using it again any time soon. But I imagine we should be able to find a few places.”  
  
“What about email?” Alexa asks.  
  
“We could use disposable email accounts,” Graves suggests. “I used them to send those emails to Crowe-”  
  
Solomon mutters ‘ _stalked me_ ’ under his breath, and then coughs. “Might work, but if anyone hacks our computers-”  
  
“Other than you?” Corbin asks pointedly.  
  
“Other than me,” Solomon concedes. “They might find the emails. It might work, but we should keep all incriminating facts out of them. Keep it vague.”  
  
“What if Trips gets someone else to check up on you?” Alexa asks.  
  
“He probably has,” Solomon admits. “He told me he’s got friends in high places who owe him favours. And he knows I’m a criminal. But I know just about everyone he could hire for this kind of work. If he tries anything, I’ll find out, and he told me himself that he hired me because he can’t keep asking favours from people who have their own jobs.”  
  
Graves nods slowly. “All right.”  
  
“As long as Hunter doesn’t realise that we’re all together, we should be OK,” Solomon concludes.  
  
“That’s what I thought,” Graves agrees.  
  
“So that’s agreed,” Corbin states flatly. “No more questions?”  
  
Solomon nods. “None here.”  
  
“I’m good,” Graves agrees.  
  
Alexa shrugs. “Nope.”  
  
“Then we should probably get back,” Corbin says.  
  
Graves blinks and looks at Solomon. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming here, right?”  
  
Solomon looks back at him. “I wasn’t sure what you were dragging me into, or if I was going to even come back, so I left a note on my desk.”  
  
“Saying what?”  
  
“That I had a meeting with Corbin at five,” Solomon says. “That’s all.”  
  
Graves shrugs. “That should be all right. If anyone asks…”  
  
“I took him out for a drink and destroyed a bar with him,” Corbin says slowly.  
  
Solomon rolls his eyes. “I don’t get in fights. I don’t even go to bars. And I’m very obviously not drunk.” _And I’m pretty sure the only reason you’d take me out for a drink is so you could poison me._

“If you want, I’ve got beer,” Graves offers.

Solomon grits his teeth and shakes his head. “Missing the point, Graves.”

“If we’re gonna work together, we should be on first-name terms,” Graves says. “Call me Corey.”

Solomon weighs up the pros and cons in his head and shrugs. “Solomon.”

Corbin smiles. “If you don’t like that, I could make up something else.”

“Don’t,” Solomon says. “Also, I’m not riding back with you. You’re a fucking nightmare on that motorbike.”

Corey shrugs. “Cabs don’t usually come around this part of town. Either you ride back with her, or you stay here, and that might not be a good move.”  
  
Solomon nods and turns to Alexa. “How are- wait. That blue motorbike…”  
  
“Was mine,” she confirms. “I’ve got room.”  
  
“Thanks,” Solomon says gratefully.  
  
“We should get going,” Alexa says. “But first, what’s our cover story?”  
  
“You were visiting a friend,” Corey replies. “And on the way back, you passed Solomon here and generously gave him a lift back. Corbin took him out for a drink, but an emergency came up, and Solomon said…”  
  
“‘I’m not riding with you, you drive like a maniac?’” Solomon completes.  
  
“Exactly,” Corey says. “Corbin, take the long way back. Bliss, maybe drop him off a few streets away?”  
  
“Got it,” she says. “Come on, Solomon. See you, Corbin. Fuck you, Corey.”  
  
Corey smirks.  
  
Solomon is baffled, but he shrugs, grabs the spare helmet and follows Alexa outside and back to the elevator. Once the doors close, he coughs slightly.  
  
“You don’t like him, do you?” he asks, not feeling the need to specify who he means.  
  
She shrugs. “Not particularly.”  
  
“So how did you two end up working together?” he asks curiously.  
  
“We knew each other months before this happened,” she replies. “Like you said, I really don’t like him, so I didn’t tell him I was working for Triple H until he told me he got the same offer.”  
  
It’s not really an answer, but Solomon knows that he has absolutely no right to ask for more details. He’s already fucked things up enough.  
  
“So why does he only call you Bliss?” Solomon asks.  
  
“Because he knows it pisses me off,” she says as the doors open.  
  
That makes perfect sense, at least.

“So why don’t you call him Graves?” Solomon asks.

“Because he kept joking about how I _dig_ him,” she replies.

“That’s fucking stupid.”

“Yeah.”  
  
Solomon decides to shut up, and remains silent as he follows her to her motorcycle and climbs on the back.  
  
Alexa, at the very least, knows how to drive in a manner that isn’t guaranteed to generate at least twenty near death experiences. She drops Solomon off a block away from the building after a nice sedate ride, and Solomon walks back inside, suddenly very worried about what’s coming next.  
  
His apartment seems to be untouched, but Solomon isn’t convinced. He takes the note outside and burns it, looks for any sign of microphones or cameras, and once he’s found nothing, he sets the helmet down on the table- he’ll have to give it back to Corbin at some point- and flops down on his couch with a sigh.  
  
After a few minutes, he pulls his laptop over and opens it.  
  
Once he’s entered the password, the report on Graves is the first thing to meet his eyes, and he purses his lips, contemplating it.  
  
On the one hand, he can’t fudge it too much. On the other hand, he needs to be careful.  
  
He needs to be very careful.  
  
The problem he’s got is that while he doesn’t doubt that Corey is sincere about his beliefs, he does doubt that anything is necessarily going to happen.  
  
Then again, the fact that Hunter has at least three separate spies amongst the NXT roster does say a lot.  
  
So with thoughts racing through his brain almost faster than he can comprehend them, Solomon gets back to work.  
  


  
Three weeks later, he’s walking into the nondescript hotel again to deliver the report. It’s not raining, thankfully, but the rain has been replaced with humidity so thick it could be cut with a knife.  
  
Despite the chill, Solomon’s taken his jacket off, and he’s sweating as he steps into the (air-conditioned, thank fuck) lobby.  
  
In minutes, he’s standing outside room 302, and once again, he knocks and swipes the keycard.  
  
Just before he pushes the door open, he has a brief moment of terror, and he suppresses it forcefully. There’s no reason for him to be worried, after all. He’s been closely monitoring Hunter’s activity, and he hasn’t found anything worrying. All of his and Hunter’s brief conversations have been normal. He has nothing to be worried about.  
  
And that, more than anything, is the reason why he needs to be calm. If he starts freaking out when there’s no reason for him to freak out, Hunter will definitely suspect that something’s up.  
  
So he takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax, and then he steps through the door.  
  
This time, Hunter’s not on the phone. Instead, he’s standing at the door to the balcony, staring out into the night.  
  
“Looks bad out there,” he comments without turning around.  
  
“It’s very humid,” Solomon replies quietly, shutting the door behind him. “And cold, too.”  
  
Hunter turns around and winces. “That’s always a bad combination.”

Solomon looks down. He's got nothing to say.  
  
“What have you got for me?” Hunter asks, walking to the table and sitting down.  
  
Solomon slides into the chair opposite him and pulls the report out of his bag. “The Graves report.”  
  
Hunter nods, but he doesn’t move to take it. “And that list I gave you?”  
  
Solomon pulls another envelope out of his bag. “Here.”  
  
“You didn’t call before now,” Hunter comments. “Should I take it as read that nobody’s contacted anyone on the list?”  
  
Solomon nods. “That’s right.”  
  
It’s not a lie, at least. Nobody has contacted anyone on the list. Solomon did a little checking up on every number and address on the list, and found that most of them belonged to people Hunter would consider to be his rivals in various fields, both in and out of WWE.  
  
Three of them, however, were another matter, because Solomon couldn’t find anything out about them at all, not even who they belong to. It’s less worrying and more intriguing, mainly because Solomon doesn’t really have a reason to care, unless it turns out that contacting anyone on the list is a hanging offence.  
  
Which… it probably is, come to think of it. Fuck.  
  
Hunter opens the second envelope and starts flicking through the report. Solomon divided it into sections, one to each member of the roster, and laid out neat lists of whom they contacted.  
  
“You didn’t include the actual messages,” Hunter comments.  
  
“You wanted a report, not a book,” Solomon replies, trying not to sound belligerent.  
  
“True,” Hunter replies. “If I told you the specific ones I wanted, you could get them for me, right?”  
  
Solomon nods. “I’ll do my best…”  
  
“But you can’t promise everything,” Hunter completes, nodding as well. “Even though you’ve given me everything I asked for so far.”  
  
Solomon has no idea how to answer that. Finally, he shrugs.  
  
“I’ll read through both of these,” Hunter says. “And once I’ve decided what to do next, I’ll call you. Say, in about a week.”  
  
Solomon nods. “OK.”  
  
“Get some rest,” Hunter says, smiling in what passes as a sincere, friendly grin for him. “You’ve done good work.”  
  
“Thank you,” Solomon replies, doing his best to sound grateful. Without delay, he grabs his bag and departs. It’s awkward enough without him sticking around any longer than he absolutely has to.

 

  
Three days later, he just happens to be standing on a street corner a few blocks away from the building when a familiar blue motorcycle just happens to pull up, its blue-clad driver staring at him through her helmet.  
  
Solomon pulls his helmet on and climbs on behind her, and Alexa drives off, whisking them away.  
  
The sun’s setting, strong streaks of orange spreading across the sky behind the glowing golden clouds, and Solomon’s glad that he’s wearing the helmet, because for most of the trip, they’re facing directly into the sun’s rays.  
  
The ride doesn’t last long. Alexa pulls up outside a small house in the middle of suburbia, checks a piece of paper in her pocket, and slowly drives into the garage.  
  
Once they’ve both disembarked, Alexa grabs a remote lying on a shelf and hits a button, making the door shut. She locks it, puts the remote back and looks over at Solomon with a smile. “Thanks for being on time.”  
  
“Thank you,” Solomon says with feeling, “for not driving like Baron Corbin.”  
  
She laughs. “Nobody drives like Baron Corbin.”  
  
“Thank Christ,” Solomon mutters.  
  
“They should be inside,” she says. “Let’s go.”  
  
He follows her inside the house, down a short hallway and into a den. The walls are thin and cheap; the carpet’s worn and dirty; the furniture’s nothing to write home about; there’s a strong scent of old cigarette smoke and cheap wine in the air. Still, at least it isn’t as inherently creepy as the apartment building.  
  
The den contains a cheap TV, a couch that looks surprisingly new, Graves, standing around awkwardly, a mini-fridge, a folding table and several chairs, and Baron Corbin, sitting at the table and drinking a beer.  
  
“You’re late, Bliss,” Corey says, sinking down on the couch. “Hey there, Solomon.” He winks in a way that could almost be considered lewd, and Solomon feels his cheeks flush as he looks away.

Corey’s speech is just a little slurred, and Solomon wonders just how drunk he is. There’s a few empty cans around, but for all he knows, they’re all Corbin’s, and Solomon has no doubt that Baron Corbin could drink half a bar’s worth of beer without blinking.  
  
“Fuck you, Corey,” Alexa says, her usual cheer gone. “You said six. It’s six now.”  
  
“6:02,” Corey rebuts, glaring at Alexa like her personal existence is an affront.  
  
She flips him off. “Who cares?”  
  
“ _I_ care,” he snaps. “If you can’t even turn up on time-”  
  
Solomon looks over at Corbin, and despite the latter’s hostility, he risks a question. “Do they do this a lot?”  
  
“All the time,” Corbin says, drinking his beer in two mouthfuls and tossing the empty can to the floor.  
  
Solomon sighs.  
  
“-you’re seriously going to bitch at me over _two minutes?_ ”  
  
“It’s about being efficient, Bliss-”  
  
“Shut the fuck up!” Solomon shouts.  
  
Everyone turns to look at him, and Solomon’s cheeks flush a little with the unwanted staring, but he continues. “This is the first time we’ve got together in almost a month. I swear to God, if you two brought me here so I can listen to you two arguing over meaningless shit, I’m walking out right now.”  
  
Alexa draws a breath, lets it out and glares at Corey, but she says nothing. Instead, she grabs two beers from the mini-fridge, sits down at the folding table and pointedly doesn’t give one to Corbin, who’s smiling at her.  
  
Corey glares back at her, but he manages to relax. “All right. Now we’re all here, welcome to the… hmmm. Maybe we need a name.”  
  
“No, we don’t,” Solomon says, almost falling onto the couch. “The last thing we need is a name. The whole point is that nobody finds out we exist.”  
  
“And you of all people should have realised that,” Alexa says snidely.  
  
Corbin rolls his eyes.  
  
“Fuck, we’re the People’s Front of Judea, then,” Corey says.  
  
“It’s the Judean People’s Front,” Corbin says. There’s no trace of humour in his voice, or, Solomon thinks, he might actually be making a joke.

He’s not sure that Corbin knows what jokes are, honestly.  
  
“Whatever,” Corey says dismissively. “What happened with Trips, Sol?”  
  
Solomon pauses at the nickname, but he lets it slide. “He bought it, I think. I couldn’t edit the report too much, but I did my best to make everything look as innocent as I could.”  
  
“Good,” Corey replies. “What about- you mentioned a list?”  
  
Solomon digs the list out of his backpack and hands it over.  
  
Corey reads each item off out loud, looking over at Alexa and Corbin for any sign of recognition. When he reaches the three Solomon couldn’t identify, he looks back at Solomon. “What about these ones?”  
  
Solomon shrugs. “Couldn’t find a damn thing on any of them. I was hoping that maybe one of you guys knew.”  
  
Corey reads each one out, slowly and precisely, and then looks at Alexa and Corbin. “None of these mean anything to me. What about you two?”  
  
Corbin shakes his head.  
  
“Sorry,” Alexa says.  
  
“Should we be worried?” Corey asks. “I mean, if _you_ can’t find anything on them…”

“I found a few conversations,” Solomon corrects him. “I meant that I can’t find anything that tells me who they are. As for whether we should be worried…” He thinks about it for a bit. “I don’t know. All we can do is keep our eyes out. We know what to avoid now. I’ll keep looking.”  
  
“What about the reports? Who are you looking at now?” Alexa asks.  
  
“The Ascension,” Solomon replies.  
  
“ _Those_ creepy rat-demon fuckers?”  
  
“As far as I know, they’re the only creepy rat-demon fuckers we’ve got,” Solomon responds.  
  
Corey laughs. “Fair point.”  
  
“How have things been going with you two?” Solomon asks, looking from Corey to Alexa.  
  
She shrugs. “OK, I guess. I mean, nobody in the Women’s Division is planning outright mutiny or anything like that. I just tell Triple H what happens and he runs with it.”  
  
“Same,” Corey admits. “It’s been pretty quiet.”  
  
Solomon nods slowly. “All right. So what do we do now?”  
  
Finding an answer to that simple question leads to another hour of intense discussion. By the end of it, Corey and Alexa are standing in the middle of the room screaming in each other’s faces, Solomon’s drunk two beers and Corbin’s put away another three, and Solomon just wants to lock Corey and Alexa in a room together and leave them to it.  
  
Instead, he looks over at Corbin, desperate. “Can’t you do something?”  
  
In response, Corbin gets up, walks over to the furious pair, picks Alexa up and carries her over to the table, ignoring her screaming at him.  
  
He sits her down at the table, hands her an unopened beer and walks back over to Corey. He roughly shoves the other man back onto the couch, pats him heavily on the shoulder, and glares at them both as he walks back to his seat.  
  
“Thank you,” Solomon says with a groan. “Seriously, can’t you two at least try to not scream like fucking seagulls?”  
  
They both respond by shrieking insults at him.  
  
Corbin slaps the table so hard it nearly collapses, and the room mysteriously falls silent.  
  
“Let’s… let’s just not talk about this any more, OK?” Solomon asks. “Please?”  
  
He gets terse nods from them both and sighs in relief.  
  
Corbin starts talking to Alexa in a low voice, and Solomon stares at the TV, failing to realise that it’s not on for about half a minute as he tries to relax.  
  
Corey’s staring into silence, thinking about something, but he seems to come out of it, tapping Solomon on the shoulder.  
  
“What?” Solomon asks.  
  
“It’s dark out,” he says. “Did you plan on staying here tonight or did you want to get back to the building?”  
  
Solomon thinks about it. “Nobody knows we’re here, so fuck it. I’ll stay.” 

Corey grins, and Solomon just shrugs back and jerks his chin toward the others. “What about them?”  
  
“They’re staying,” Corey confirms.  
  
Solomon nods. “Mind if I get some fresh air?”  
  
Corey shrugs. “Go for it.”  
  
  
  
The stars are fucking beautiful, Solomon thinks.  
  
Yeah, it’s fucking cold, but still. They’re beautiful.  
  
The sky’s perfectly clear, the stars are shining far above him, and Solomon sits down on the front step and stares up at the sky, wishing for the umpteenth time that he could fly like his friends.  
  
It’s a peaceful night: there’s not a lot of lights on, he can’t hear any dogs barking or cats screeching at each other, nobody seems to have called the cops on them for all the shouting (though they probably wouldn’t anyway, Solomon googled the suburb while Corey and Alexa were fighting and it’s not the kind of place where anyone will give a fuck about a fight), and apart from the soft sounds of the wind, there’s nothing to disturb him.  
  
At least, not until the crow caws from above him.  
  
Solomon turns, startled, and the crow flies down from a nearby tree and lands on the step next to him. He’s an older male with wary eyes and a few missing feathers, and he gives Solomon a very cynical look.  
  
Solomon looks down at him. “Shouldn’t you be asleep right now?”  
  
There’s a sound nearby, the sound of footsteps and something running, and Solomon sighs, knowing what’s coming.  
  
At least this time there’s no physical danger: the front yard isn’t much to speak of, just a stretch of lawn in front of the steps and a short fence, but the gate’s closed and locked. It’s not exactly Fort Knox, but it’s fine for keeping out dogs.  
  
This particular dog isn’t much, some kind of tiny mutt, but what happens next is exactly the same as all the other times: the dog and its owner start walking past, the dog smells something interesting, and then it gets a good look (sniff?) at Solomon and promptly freaks the fuck out.  
  
At least this one’s a runner. It takes off, yipping and howling like it’s seen a monster, practically dragging its poor owner behind it. Most animals react like that, but some go berserk and try to kill him, and that’s never fun.  
  
The crow caws after it defiantly and then turns back to Solomon like he’s waiting for a response.  
  
Solomon just shrugs. “Don’t look at me, man.”  
  
“What was that about?” Alexa asks from behind them, and Solomon nearly jumps out of his skin.  
  
“Jesus!” he gasps, trying to breathe. “Don’t do that!”  
  
The crow takes off and lands on the fence, squinting at Alexa like he doesn’t know what to think of her. He caws at her angrily, and she shrugs it off.  
  
For a second, Solomon wants to tell her to be more respectful, but he knows the thought is bullshit the second he thinks it. She can’t understand crows, why would she care?  
  
“Sorry,” she says, walking down to where he’s sitting. “Mind if I join you?”  
  
Solomon takes another breath and shrugs, and Alexa sits down next to him, where the crow was standing.  
  
“Seriously, what was that?” she asks again.  
  
Solomon thinks about it for a second and elects to be honest. “Animals fucking hate me. I don’t know why.”  
  
“Except crows,” she says.  
  
He nods. “Except crows, yeah.”  
  
He doesn’t know why crows love him like a brother and every other animal seems to view him as a freak of nature, but he’s accepted it. Yeah, he’s often wished to have a pet that wouldn’t be terrified of him, but the crows are his family, and pets can’t beat that.  
  
It’s more or less an equal trade in the end, he thinks, though it’s not a trade he can remember ever making.  
  
“It’s weird,” Alexa says thoughtfully, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “I like it.”  
  
She gives him a smile, and Solomon looks away awkwardly.  
  
It’s not that he doesn’t like her, not at all. It’s more that he’s feeling like an intruder, like some hero in a fantasy novel who discovers a secret and an already-established group who all knew the secret has to make room for him and accept that he’ll be stumbling around, fucking things up for them for the foreseeable future, and they all have to cover for his inevitable fuckups that stem from him knowing exactly jack fucking shit about the situation. He barely knows any of them while they all know each other, and he knows he’ll be feeling shy and awkward around them for a long while.  
  
Well, that and he doesn’t fit in: Alexa is bubbly and happy, Corey is relaxed and confident, and Corbin has this air of _I do things my way and I don’t care what you think_ instead of confidence that seems to work just fine. Solomon, on the other hand, is best at interacting with people in small doses, if at all, and most of the time he feels out of place even when the people he’s talking to like him.  
  
There’s a flurry of wings and the crow flies over to them, landing on Solomon’s knee and cawing at Alexa defensively, almost as if he knows how Solomon’s feeling. She flinches away, raising her hands to cover her face, and Solomon manages to not groan.  
  
“Sorry,” he says to her, looking down at his ‘protector’ glumly.  
  
Alexa lowers her hands and stares down at the crow curiously. “Don’t be. Uh… did I do something?”  
  
“Don’t think so.”  
  
“It’s just temperamental, then?”  
  
“He. And I don’t know. Sorry.”

“Does he have a name?” Alexa asks, tilting her head a little.

“They all do,” Solomon says. “But their names are pretty much impossible to translate.”

“What about nicknames?”

Solomon shrugs. “Why bother? I know who they are, and they know who they are. There’s no point.”

She nods uncertainly.  
  
The conversation peters out after that, and Solomon tries to relax, forcing himself to stop glancing between Alexa and the crow every five seconds. She’s staring off into the distance and he’s settling down on Solomon’s knee, and Solomon really isn’t sure what to do next.  
  
A few minutes later, there’s a loud _thump_ from indoors and someone exclaims loudly. Solomon, Alexa and the crow all turn toward the house simultaneously, but no new noises ensue.  
  
“The fuck was that?” Solomon mutters.  
  
The crow gives him the crow equivalent of a shrug.  
  
“Probably Corbin,” Alexa says, rolling her eyes. “Fucking idiot.”  
  
“What’s _with_ him?” Solomon asks, exasperated.  
  
“How d’you mean?”  
  
“He hates me,” Solomon says slowly. “And I have no idea why. Did I say something wrong? I haven’t done a report on him yet, I don’t know anything about him-”  
  
“It’s not that,” Alexa says, and Solomon looks at her, confused.  
  
“Well, what _is_ it?”  
  
She purses her lips, exhales heavily and sighs. “He’s jealous. And he’s an idiot.”  
  
That makes no sense whatsoever.  
  
Well, the first bit, that is. The second bit makes all the sense, and then some.  
  
“Jealous? Of _me?_ ”  
  
“Like I said, he’s an idiot.”  
  
“OK,” Solomon says, trying to make sense of it. “Go back to the beginning, will you?”  
  
Alexa shrugs again. “He’s in love with Corey.”  
  
Solomon blinks, surprised. “And what does that have to do with me, exact- oh, _no_ …”  
  
“No, no,” Alexa says reassuringly. “Well. Sort of. Ugh, this is- I’m not making any sense, am I?”  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
“OK, so, like, Corbin’s in love with Corey,” Alexa says again. “And Corey doesn’t know. He’s an idiot too. So Corey fucks anyone who looks at him twice, including Corbin, and he has no idea that Corbin’s got feelings for him.”  
  
Solomon winces. “ _Ouch.”_  
  
“And what Corbin really wants is for Corey to fall for him, but Corey’s not really that kind of guy, you know? And Corbin hates talking about his feelings, so he won’t say anything about it.”  
  
“I get the feeling that this is where I come in,” Solomon says uncertainly, “but I have no idea why.”

The crow lets out a loud screech and hops down onto the next step, squinting up at Solomon critically.  
  
“‘Cause we had a thing going,” Alexa says, ignoring him. “The three of us. We’d meet up, Corey and I’d compare notes on what Triple H asked us to do, then we’d fight, then we’d fuck, and Corbin would just drink a lot and watch and not say anything. And we were all cool with that, you know?”  
  
Solomon raises his eyebrows. “Wait. You hate Corey. Why would you fuck him?”  
  
She shrugs. “Why not?”

Fair enough.

“So why doesn’t Corbin hate you?” Solomon asks. The answer hits him a second later. “Because you and Corey hate each other, so you’re clearly not competition.”  
  
“Exactly,” Alexa says. “So we’ve got this thing going…”  
  
“And then I turn up,” Solomon says, his stomach sinking.  
  
Alexa puts a hand on his arm, and her touch sends heat shooting through him, combatting the wind’s chill. “Hey. Not your fault. You never asked to get pulled into this shit.”  
  
_Yeah. Yeah, she’s right._  
  
“And Corey’s interested in you,” Alexa says. “You’re new, you’re interesting, and you’re part of our fucked-up little club. Give it some time and the novelty will wear off. But Corbin’s pissed as hell that Corey’s so interested in someone else. He’s jealous and he’s acting like a teenager.”  
  
“ _Fantastic_.”  
  
“Sorry,” she says ruefully.  
  
“No, not that,” Solomon says. “This isn’t going to work.”

“What won’t?”  
  
“This glorious scheme Graves cooked up,” Solomon says to her, keeping his voice down. “Yeah, it sounds good, but if we’re all acting like we’re in some shitty high school soap opera, how the fuck are we gonna protect anyone from this shit, including ourselves?”  
  
Alexa sighs and closes her eyes. “I know. This whole thing’s a fucking disaster, and somehow we’re supposed to be the ones protecting everyone.”  
  
“It’s like a shitty fantasy novel,” Solomon commiserates. “A loudmouthed tattooed blowhard, the sociopathic asshat who’s in love with him, a fairy cheerleader-”  
  
“ _Former_ cheerleader,” Alexa says firmly.  
  
“A fairy _former_ cheerleader who thinks he’s an idiot and the confused hacker who got pulled in at the last minute somehow have to sort everything out,” Solomon concludes bitterly. “This isn’t a fucking fantasy story, though. If we can’t work together, we’ll all be fighting so much we’ll let the important shit slip past us.”  
  
“And then we’re fucked.”  
  
“And then we’re fucked,” Solomon says, nodding.  
  
“So what do we do?” Alexa asks.  
  
The crow caws, and both of them jump, having forgotten his presence.  
  
Alexa puts a hand to her chest and looks at Solomon. “What did he say?”  
  
Solomon looks at the crow, who just looks back.  
  
He sighs. “That we need to sort our shit out. And that we’re idiots.”  
  
“Well, he’s right about that,” Alexa admits, looking down at the crow.  
  
The crow tilts his head curiously, and then flies off with a final caw.  
  
“Aww, he’s gone,” Alexa says, sounding a little disappointed.  
  
“It’s late. He needs sleep.”  
  
“It’s not that late,” she objects, checking her phone.  
  
“Crows don’t get time like we do. It’s either day or night, and if it’s night, they should be asleep unless they really need food, or it’s raining, or there’s a predator around,” Solomon explains.  
  
“You really do talk to them,” she says, fascinated.  
  
Solomon looks away.  
  
He’s always hated this part. People see him as either a curiosity or a freak, but either way they pepper him with endless questions and stare at him and they never fucking leave him alone.  
  
Ah, well. It was good while it lasted.  
  
He sighs and looks down. “Yes, I understand them, yes, they understand me, no, I don’t know why, yes, I would really appreciate you not asking me questions I’ve been asked a hundred fucking times already because apparently I’m just there so everyone else can point and laugh at the freak. Are you done?”  
  
She sounds surprised, but he doesn’t look at her. “I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”  
  
They never do.  
  
_She couldn’t have known_ , some part of him thinks, and Solomon sighs and finally looks at her. She looks… subdued, like he’d slapped her, and he mentally kicks himself.  
  
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”  
  
“No, I shouldn’t have asked-”  
  
“You couldn’t have known-”  
  
“But I should have thought that-”  
  
“Nobody’s that good-”  
  
“That’s not good enough, though-”  
  
“I… look,” Solomon says finally. “Let’s just pretend it never happened, OK?”  
  
She bites her lip, but nods, and Solomon sighs, relieved.  
  
The wind picks up, even colder than before, and Solomon fiddles with the zip on his jacket, wishing it wasn’t so goddamn cold.  
  
“So, uh…” Alexa says after a while. “How do we get everyone to work together?”  
  
Solomon nods, thinks about it and finally replies, his voice solemn. “We can’t. At least, not in one go. You’re not going to stop hating Graves just because it makes things harder, and unless we can somehow magically solve what the fuck is up with him and Corbin, we’re already fucked.”  
  
“We agreed to work together,” Alexa says, musing over the problem. “I mean, it’s not like we really have a choice. Corey and I can get along as long as you or Corbin can slap us both over the head and tell us to shut up every once in a while.”  
  
“I can probably do that.”  
  
“As for Corbin… I can tell Corey what’s going on, but I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she admits. “I mean, it’s not like a romance movie. I don’t know if he even wants a relationship with anyone, let alone Corbin.”  
  
“Getting them to actually talk about it would be a good start,” Solomon says. “But not now. I mean, it’s late, we’re tired, we’ve all been drinking, it’s the worst possible time.”  
  
Alexa nods. “So… when?”  
  
“We’re all supposed to be going back to the building tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, but nobody said when. We could stretch it to tomorrow afternoon, or maybe even tomorrow night.”  
  
“I’d say get them to talk about it when we’re not around. Best possible situation.”  
  
“Yeah, I get that,” Alexa agrees, and she’s got a thoughtful look in her eyes. “So… I could tell Corey, then you and I could leave…”

“Or something like that. Yeah, that sounds good.”

Solomon isn’t sure what else can be done. They’re in a shitty situation, no matter how he looks at it, and this is not a test. There’s no room for mistakes. But sitting around doing fuck all won’t help, either.  
  
“What are you thinking?” Alexa asks curiously.  
  
“That I think we’ve done all we can for now,” Solomon admits. “May as well go back inside and get some sleep.”  
  
She nods. “Yeah, I’m pretty tired.”  
  
He gets to his feet, wincing as the icy wind hits him again, and offers her a hand up.  
  
“Thanks,” she says, eyes downcast.  
  
“No problem.”  
  
They’re almost at the door when Alexa pauses, and Solomon looks over at her. “Something wrong?”  
  
“Thanks,” she repeats. “For… for understanding.”  
  
Solomon has no idea what she’s talking about. “Huh?”  
  
She looks like she regrets it, but she soldiers on regardless. “Just… just thanks.”  
  
Without warning, she leans over and kisses him quickly on the lips.  
  
For a second, they stare at each other, and then she turns red and bolts ahead, into the house.  
  
Solomon stares after her, perplexed, and then the wind picks up, howling past him and chilling him to the bone.  
  
Great. One more factor to fuck everything up.  
  
Then again… maybe not.  
  
He’s not sure how to react, but honestly, he doesn’t really mind. After all, he’s got time to think about it, and if it works out…  
  
But that’s for later.

He walks back into the house, letting the door swing shut behind him, and as it closes, he hears a crow caw.


End file.
